


Daemon Bound

by AdamantEve



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Fantasy, Archie's a bit of an ass, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bisexual Betty, F/M, Older Jughead Jones, Possession, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Soul bound, Tragic Deaths, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, ghosts and spectre, mention of cadavers, mentions of paid sex, opium addiction, supernatural themes, tension between Reggie and Betty, triggering: mention of rubber bullets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-01-20 15:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 264,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21283907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantEve/pseuds/AdamantEve
Summary: The Kin hold the keys between the realm of the living and realm of the dead. It is the Kin who ensure the borders—Peace Dealers that lay souls to rest. Betty and Jughead are Kin, and in their respective worlds, nothing is as it seems. Separated then throw back together by fate, they discover how they are more powerful together than they are apart.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 617
Kudos: 372
Collections: 6th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, 6th Bughead Fanfiction Awards — Winners!





	1. Prologue to Destiny

Betty first saw her in the library; a pale girl in a ruffled white night dress who walked between the shelves, light as mist. The girl peeked between books and stood in dark corners, never speaking, never completely seen. She was older than Betty. By how much, there was no way for Betty to tell, but the girl was taller, with hair ornaments better suited to a girl going on her teens.

The girl seemed faded. Smudged. And no one else could see her, but Betty was sure she was there, even if looking at the girl felt like watching her through a shroud. Sometimes she looked like one amongst a crowd, particularly when Charles’s house was filled with people, running between jeweled guests like a shade, casting shadows where no one looked, and tinkling crystal when it wouldn’t be noticed.

The girl liked to watch the ladies in their layered bustle skirts and feathery hats. She liked to touch the trimmings on their parasols and the bones on their corsets. She seemed endlessly fascinated by the men’s top hats and their tailored coats. And she always took the time to tip over a few jeweled canes.

Often, the girl looked unchanged by time, her features delicate and unmarred. But when the days were dark and dreary, marked by ill news or when the air was heavy with worry, the girl looked ghastly, with mottled green skin, a clot of blood matting her hair, and her fingers and nails brutalized, like she had tried to claw her way out of her coffin. 

Betty had never seen anyone like her before, but even at ten, Betty understood what the girl was. She was a spirit, a spectral remnant of a young girl that had once lived.

Betty sometimes found her frightening, even when Betty told herself the girl seemed harmless enough, but it was difficult to stay brave when the girl looked like a rotting corpse.

Still, Betty tried her best not to dive under her sheets and hide.

And so one day, after having seen the girl haunting Charles’s library for weeks, Betty finally turned to her and spoke, “What’s your name?”

The spirit, having set herself on the other side of the bookcase to watch Betty, said nothing at first. She stood unmoving, silent as the dead.

“Do you have a name?” Betty asked again.

As the silence lengthened, Betty did not think she would get an answer, but just as she thought the spirit did not want to be bothered, that all she really wanted to do was watch the living, she spoke.

“Evelyn.”

Betty looked at her through the books. She could only see Evelyn’s fathomless eyes, black as night and nothing else. “Did you used to live here, Evelyn?”

“No. Never. Here, I died.”

Betty thought that to be incredibly sad. She had imagined that Evelyn stayed on because the house was filled with memories she could not leave behind. She could not imagine the reasons a spirit would stay at the place they died in, if they weren’t happy ones, for when one died as young as Evelyn, the circumstances for which they lingered could not be good.

“How old are you?” Betty asked.

“I was twelve when it happened.”

“When you died?”

“When I was murdered.”

Betty was shocked. She was ten, and in her world, children were not killed. Children died, yes, of disease. Perhaps even of accidents. But they were never murdered. Who would murder a child? “Who would do such a thing?”

Evelyn did not flinch. “My betrothed. Lord Edgar Evernever.”

“Does anyone else know that he killed you?”

Evelyn shook her head.

Betty felt like she needed to do something. One simply did not get murdered and forgotten. If one had gotten murdered, justice ought to follow. “I should tell my brother.”

Evelyn’s lips tightened to a line. “The likes of him… don’t help the likes of me.”

Before Betty could insist, Evelyn disappeared, fading in the slant of the sunbeams streaming through the windows.

Betty didn’t see Evelyn again until several days later, when while waiting for sleep to come, Evelyn materialized at the foot of her bed.

It was the clearest Betty had ever seen her, far more solid than the times before. Her hair, fairer during the day, seemed to be made of shadow. The hues of her dress seemed deeper. Evelyn’s eyes looked even darker at night, if that were possible--two deep wells that swallowed light. 

“Come with me,” was all Evelyn said before gliding backwards towards Betty’s bedroom door.

Betty did not ask. She jumped out of bed, never minding the shock of the cold floor against her bare feet. She pushed back the tangles of her blonde hair and threw her braid behind her as she raced out of the door.

Betty saw Evelyn’s spectral form materialize at the end of the hallway, disappearing behind the corner. Betty followed her, and next Betty saw Evelyn disappearing at the bottom of the stairs. Wherever Evelyn was leading her, it was downwards, and it was only when Betty pushed open the door to the wine cellar that the chase seemed to stop.

Evelyn stood at the edge of the room, where the brick wall behind her was old and untouched. The floors and shelves, often refurbished through the years, were free of the evidence of age that marked the cellar walls. The walls, she’d heard the house cook say, were perfect the way they were: old, but just right for housing the wines, so that they may be properly kept, or even aged.

Evelyn turned and glided her hand over the chipped bricks and mortar. “I’m here. Within this wall.”

And Evelyn disappeared then, like a candle in the wind, blown by an unseen breath.

Betty touched the stone where Evelyn’s hand had lain. It was cold as winter and bone dry. There could have been no means for anyone to have known that there was something behind those ancient walls, no indication that a young girl’s slain body had been bricked up and sealed, evidence of a murder that may have never been solved.

There should’ve at least been a blood stain, thought Betty nonsensically. _ Aren’t blood stains impossible to wash off? _

It then occurred to Betty that Evelyn could’ve been killed by strangulation, where often such means shed no blood at all, though it would have been no less horrifying, where Evelyn could’ve stared into her killer’s eyes as he squeezed the life out of her, gradually, slowly, painfully.

She had to have been stabbed, or maybe bashed on the head. It must have been sudden, and Betty supposed that Evelyn hadn’t even seen it coming. There had been times Betty saw blood in Evelyn’s hair. Surely, that had something to do with her death. 

She wondered then if it was polite to ask someone how they died. There was no prescribed etiquette for speaking to dead people. 

As she turned away from the wall to head for the door, she saw Charles standing at the threshold, blocking the candlelight beyond.

His presence surprised her. She had not heard him following. 

She said nothing, for she was at a loss at what to say. Should she apologize for being out of bed at this late hour? If she explained what had happened, would he think her a fanciful ten-year-old?

"Who were you following, Betty?" he asked.

The question startled her. She had expected a question along the constellation of, "What are you doing out of bed at this hour, young lady?" 

Still, she was cautious about giving a truthful response. "No one, Charles. Just an imaginary friend."

His lips tightened to a grim line for an instant, then the look in his hard green eyes softened. 

He had just turned 22 and his face was still fresh with youth, though sometimes his eyes made him seem older than he was. He had arms like a workman, even if he didn't appear to do much heavy lifting. He was a budding businessman, she was told, so manual labor was not in his daily routine.

She often saw him with a companion—a younger boy, whom he seemed to treat like an apprentice, apparently 14, as the boy once enunciated it in a very sarcastic tone to her clearly amused brother. 

In spite of the sarcasm, he seemed to regard Charles with clear admiration. 

Everyone else deserved nothing but his deep set scowl. She’d heard Charles call him Forsythe, but when the boy frowned at the name, Charles would laugh and call him Jughead, instead.

However responsible her brother was, Betty was never afraid of him, because he was kind and he cared about his family and other people. 

Everybody loved Charles.

He sighed, coming towards her and placing a hand on her head. "Was it a spirit, sister?"

Betty felt instant relief. Such a question meant he'd believe her. It meant he somehow expected it. Did he see Evelyn too? 

She nodded.

A small smile, a sad one, played on his lips. “I thought I had gotten them all to move on…”

Betty did not think much about what Charles said then, that it meant he had spoken to spirits himself. Instead, she touched the stone wall. "She said she's in the wall. Buried, I think."

Charles placed his own hand upon the wall. "Did she say who did it?"

"Her betrothed, Lord Evernever."

He shook his head. "Lord Evernever.... probably a previous owner of this house. Easy enough to find out more. It must have happened at least fifty years ago, for this wall was in place when we purchased this home, and the gentleman who sold it said the cellar had been untouched for at least forty years. Have you always seen this spirit?"

She shook her head. "Only in the last few months."

"Shortly after you turned ten, I'd wager. It usually happens thereabouts... that time. A woman, you said it was?"

"A girl. She's twelve."

"Gods, twelve. Who kills a child, honestly?" He seemed not so much shocked but resigned. He'd heard of this sort of thing happening before, even if he could never fathom why. "Well then, back to bed with you. Tomorrow, I'll give you something new to read, how about that?"

It was odd the way Charles spoke so easily of it all, as if it happened everyday one’s ten year old sister would communicate with the souls of the dead.

He led her back out of the cellar, up in the hallways and back to her room. He tucked her into bed and sat at the edge of it, smoothing the covers over her. "You might see more spirits from now on. When you do, come to me and tell me all about them. Understand?"

She didn't quite understand but she nodded anyway.

He left her then, bidding her goodnight as he closed her bedroom door. 

******************

The next morning, Charles gave her a book from what he called his personal library. She had never seen the book before, but it looked old and well used. There were notations on the pages of it with Charles's handwriting, and on the acknowledgements was written "With strength, we defend, but in kindness we set them free."

The book was entitled "Introduction to the Spirit Realm, Vol. 1"

She asked how many volumes there were and he said, "Ten."

It seemed so monumental a number at the time, but as she began to read, the subject matter had her spellbound. Ghosts and entities of various types graced the pages of the book, how to identify them, how to approach them, which of them were dangerous, how to trap them, and all sorts of extraordinary things.

She was so engrossed by her books that she barely noticed that Charles had contracted masons to refurbish his wine cellar. Barely heard it when Charles spoke of going to the country where one very old gentleman resided. Not until their mother, Alice, while at the dinner table, demanded to know from him what he intended to do with the corpse they had found bricked up in their cellar.

"The authorities would know what to do with it, I trust," he simply said.

The constabulary never showed any indication that they did, for they never appeared to collect Evelyn's bones.

*********

Charles took her on a trip.

Just the two of them, with very little luggage and even less supplies. How he explained to Alice the purpose of a brother bringing his ten year old sister on a business trip, Betty did not care to know. All she knew was that she was leaving the house on a trip and that this was an adventure.

As they got off the train into a small village in the rocklands of Connecticut, they boarded a coach that brought them to a tiny villa further into the mountain range. There, Charles brought her to the forest and gave her weaponry.

“We will start with a bow and arrow,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He showed her how to wield it, and much to her surprise, her fingers were nimble on the string and fletch. The point of her arrow found the trunk of a tree without need of much practice.

Charles seemed pleased but unsurprised. Next he gave her a crossbow, and when she proved that she could manage that, he gave her a firearm, and it was with this firearm that she caught them a hart.

The hart was a young one, whose antlers were free of fuzz, but only just beginning to shape themselves into a crown of thorns. It would have been a beautiful animal, and as Charles hitched the buck upon his shoulders, she found that she regretted killing it.

When Charles saw the tears threatening to spill from her eyes, he smiled. “You have saved us from hunger, sister. You mustn’t be sorry for that.”

“We could have scavenged for berries or greens,” she said.

He smirked. “Berries are poisonous in these parts, and greens are scarce in the rocklands. We aren’t in a farm.”

“Perhaps a rabbit would have sufficed. Or a bird.”

“And you think their lives less than a buck’s?”

That caught her and she was sorry for what she said. She turned away, her tears now wrought with shame.

Seeing her distress, Charles relented with a sigh. “You, Betty, are a Peace Dealer. Only one who values life like you, can be one, and it is only in valuing life can you do your duty with compassion.”

She looked up. “What did you just call me, Charles?”

He smiled but did not reply. He began to make his way back to camp with the dead deer over his shoulders, “Let us not waste your regret. Let this buck sustain us while we bide our time to meet with our host.”

As of yet, she did not know who this host was. That evening, Charles taught her how to skin a deer and build a fire to cook it. 

The next morning, he taught her how to fish and how to clean their catch. And the day after that, he told her to climb a rock. She knew without need of asking, that he was serious. And so she climbed the rock and found herself surprised at her success and the delight she derived from it.

Charles, watching her from the ground, smiled up at her as she scanned the land from her new vantage point.

The rocklands were vast, misty, and beautiful, unrelenting in the brutality of the rocks and landscape. And however overwhelming the isolation was, the last few days had taught her that she had absolutely nothing to fear.

From the tip of the rock, she stood on her toes, raised her arms and cried out that she was not afraid.

**********

A week through their expedition in the wilderness, Charles finally brought them to their “host”. They had, Betty discovered, gone to the rocklands to meet with Evelyn's father, who was old and nearly senile. 

The gentleman remembered little, but he remembered his lost daughter well, and Betty listened with tears in her eyes when Charles revealed to the old gentleman that Evelyn's bones were found in her betrothed’s former home. The gentleman never doubted that the man, Lord Evernever, could perpetrate such a crime of murder. 

Long dead after a prostitute's pimp disposed of him for skiving on his brothel fees, Lord Evernever was never properly put to rest, for his body, after having washed up on the shores of the Thame, was never claimed from the coroner's. Such was the shame of his family.

“He was a charismatic fellow, and his father convinced us that it would be best if Evelyn and Edgar knew each other better before they became formally engaged when they came of age. I never believed them when they said Evelyn had run away and they knew not where she went, but I never thought that he could be murderous.”

Betty then realized that Charles never trusted the constabulary to know what to do, and she did begin to understand what Charles told her that night he found her exploring in the wine cellar. He saw them, too. He saw the spirits. He spoke to them, and he helped them “move on.” To where, she did not know, but whatever it was he did, he was teaching her how to do it, too. 

She discovered that her mother was complicit in all of it and that Alice would do what was necessary to lay whatever spirits that asked for help to rest.

Evelyn came to her one last time, the night before her bones were to be collected by her father. "He hit me over the head with a bottle," she said in a dreadfully forlorn tone, speaking of the murderous Lord Evernever. "But I wasn't dead when he hid my body behind the bricks. I screamed and screamed, but no one heard me. Dying was agony."

It was revolting, this final tale. Betty would have nightmares about it for years, of being encased in a wall alive, her voice rendered soundless by stone. But she realized then that souls stayed on for a reason, that the restless dead was not synonymous with a peaceful passing, and that the more horrid the death, the more corporeal the spirit.

Only true resolution can give a troubled soul rest. Only in the dealing of peace can a spirit leave behind the land of the living for the land of the dead.

Charles continued to teach her what he had begun in the rocklands of Connecticut. 

Alice watched on, interested in her daughter’s education but always deferring to Charles’s tutelage of her. Charles brought in the strangest instructors to teach her. Charles also taught a great many of her lessons: how to ride a horse, how to fence, how to swim, and how to run. He taught her how to defend herself, and taught her how to wield weapons. He brought her tutors so that she may learn things only sons were expected to learn, and he made her read books beyond the 10 volumes of "Introduction to the Spirit Realm". 

In the course of all her lessons, she discovered that she had a strength and agility uncommon to women and men, and that none of this surprised Charles in the least. She always wondered how he became learned enough to teach her these things in the first place, but while she was constantly reminded by Charles and Alice that her lessons were secret, that she was to tell no one of them, she discovered that they had their own secrets and that they would not share them with her.

************

Charles formally introduced Betty to Forsythe Pendleton “Jughead” Jones III shortly after they came back from the rocklands. 

Betty was reading one of her many assigned tomes in the family library when Charles walked into the room with a sullen, scowling boy trailing behind him. 

Having only ever seen him from afar, she was surprised at how tall he was, but even then, his clothes were too big for him. His trousers bunched at the bottom in spite of the suspenders he wore holding them up higher over his waist. His jacket did not match his trousers and his vest hung open, the buttons missing. His shirt was the only thing that fit him well, and that was perhaps a result of having somewhat outgrown it. His grey boilerman hat, which he never seemed to take off before, was now rumpled in his hands. His work boots looked sturdy, but they were scuffed all over. 

By contrast, Charles looked impeccably dressed, even without his coat on. His vest and blouse alone looked well-tailored and made from rich material. 

“Elizabeth, this is Forsythe Pendleton Jones III,” Charles said without stopping to look at her. He was headed to one of the shelves, looking for something among the row of books. “He is… an apprentice of mine--for my business, you understand. He sees spirits, as well. You and he will occasionally be learning things together. Forsythe, I told you about my sister.” 

The chair across from Betty scraped loudly against the floor as Forsythe settled himself on it. His blue eyes were sharp enough to pierce her skull, and she eyed him back, defiant, though she could feel her face growing warm with suppressed anxiety. 

His fingers were long, and they nimbly held a notebook, which he easily tucked away in his coat. 

She stood, smoothing over embroidery on her white pinafore. “Occasionally?” she asked, shoulders back and chin raised. “Why only occasionally? I am _ forced _to read these books for hours on end--”

“He works for me,” Charles said, his expression weary of, no doubt, her dramatics. “He has a job, and I pay him.”

“Pay him? How come he gets paid and I don’t?”

Charles shot her a frown. “You don’t work for me. You cannot.”

“Why not? Because I’m a girl?” 

“No, because you’re ten and the places I send him to will no doubt be the death of you.”

She looked at Forsythe for confirmation, and though he had averted his eyes, he did smirk, mostly to himself. 

A pout blossomed from Betty’s lips. “What he can do, I can do as well.”

Forsythe scoffed and she dealt him a glare that he didn’t pay attention to. Charles came over to the table and placed several more books between them. 

“When you turn fourteen, like Forsythe here, you very well may be able to,” Charles said, gently. “But right now, you will learn what Forsythe’s known since he himself was ten. Now read your text. Forsythe will read his.” He took the book at the top of the pile and gave it to Forsythe, who opened it without complaint. 

Betty eyed the tome in his hands. It was one of the advanced volumes, one she was told she was years away from reading. The rest of the remaining books were just as advanced. 

“I have some paperwork to attend to,” Charles said, cutting through her thoughts. “I will be back in a couple of hours. I’d expect you both to have gone through five chapters of your reading by the time I get back. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Forsythe said, though his eyes never left his text book. 

Charles looked at her for a similar response. 

She nodded, her chin set and her teeth pushing hard against one another.

Satisfied, Charles left, his footsteps fading and finally receding at the click of the library door. 

The moment Charles was gone, Betty made a grab for one of the advanced books. It smelled like old parchment and well-worn leather, and when she opened it and skimmed its yellowing pages, she could feel the ink of its contents against the pads of her fingers. There were sigils and diagrams, computations and symbols, constellations and intersecting lines. None of it meant anything to her, but she felt good about defying Charles’s strictly enforced curriculum. 

“You’re too young for that,” Forsythe said. 

“Tisn’t a sin to look,” she shot back.

The corner of his lip lifted. “Tisn’t, but read the advanced text the wrong way and it will cost you dearly.” He pulled down one side of his coat from his shoulder and then pulled back the shirtsleeve inside. She saw a palm-sized scar on his skin. “It hurt for days when the mark came off.” 

Her jaw dropped and she almost demanded him to tell her what happened, but she clamped her lips shut. The Mark. She’d heard Charles refer to “Marks”, but when she asked him about it, he always told her “not yet.” 

She didn’t want Forsythe to think she knew almost nothing of it at all. He already called her “too young.” She didn’t fancy him thinking that she was “too ignorant” as well. 

She closed the advanced book and slid it back into the pile. “Did Charles scold you for learning out of turn?”

“No. He didn’t think it necessary. Losing the mark was punishment enough. It wasn’t my Daemon mark, but I worked hard for the one I lost, had days I starved myself for it. I paid a lot to get that enhancement, and then because I was stubborn and impatient, I destroyed it.”

Her eyes widened at the word s_ tarved. _

Charles took care of hers and her mother’s upkeep. She slept in a warm house, she had her own room, she slept in a soft bed, and she never went to sleep hungry. She tried not to think it, but Forsythe’s threadbare suit and worn out shoes made her. _ He’s poor. _

That sort of thing never mattered to Betty. Perhaps she was too young to think of class and privilege, but she understood on a certain level how some families had more than others. How some children grew up with harder lives. 

“Where does my brother send you that would have me killed if I went to it?” she asked. 

Forsythe chuckled. “The Southside. It’s a nasty place, with hardened roughs and wiley thieves. They take little girls like you and toss them into ships to trade them to masters who live in far off lands. They size you up for the coin in your pocket and calculate the reach of their blade to your throat.”

Betty recoiled. What a terrible sounding place. 

“It’s where I live,” he finished, shrugging. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Not even if you want to prove to your brother that you can do what I can do better.”

She felt her face warming from the neck up. “I didn’t mean that I can do things better. I just meant to say I can do what you can do.”

He gave a soft huff, but he was grinning. “I have no doubt you can. But not yet, Elizabeth.”

That he thought her such a child bit at her pride more than she cared to admit. “Call me Betty. Only my mother calls me Elizabeth.” She said this to be stubborn. To show him that she had a mind of her own. To seem more grown up. 

It only served to amuse him more. “Well, Betty, call me Jughead, then. I don’t much care for my birth name, myself.”

************

At thirteen years old, Betty was well-acquainted with how the Southside was dark and full of shadows, thanks to her “occasional”—or rather _ daily _ studies with Jughead. As it was, she saw with her own eyes how the people who walked the streets around them were not well dressed and their shoes—which, Betty saw most as she tried to keep her eyes trained to the ground, were splattered with mud and dirt, so unlike the pristine and shiny footwear of Charles’s peers.

Charles walked in front of her, a cane gripped tightly in his hand. It didn’t look like any cane she had seen the other gentlemen carried. His was made of wood, shaped oddly with a curve to it. It wasn’t particularly decorative or fashionable, and she had never seen him carry it before. Sometimes it fell within the confines of his voluminous cloak, a cloak that covered most of him, as if to protect him. Yet he held this cane in his hand with purpose, much like a weapon. Perhaps being out here in this rough place, it was.

To the side of her, Jughead walked with a confident swagger. This was his home and here he walked like he was king. The suit he wore was better than most, for one. Over the last three years she’d known him, she was aware of how Charles had increased his pay, and how Charles’s old suits got handed down to him. 

Charles had, at many times, made a gentleman of him, smoothing down the rough edges, if only temporarily, so that Charles may present him as a “distant cousin” during certain social functions. At seventeen, Jughead cut a fine figure, with his perfect nose and attractive blue eyes. 

Her favorite feature was his hair, how it was so dark and silky, tumbling over his forehead when he got flustered and when it lost all semblance of poise as he ran his beautiful long fingers through it.

The girls twittered around him--she heard them, sighing and batting their eyelashes at him even while he scowled and paid them no heed. He talked only to Charles and to her during these functions, and Betty didn’t mind that exclusive attention at all, even if it was earned by default.

Betty, at thirteen, was yet to be perceived as a “lady” to society. She was still a child by most standards, but her crush on Jughead Jones increased with steady intensity.

She would die if he found her out, but it was surprisingly easy to hide her feelings from him, especially because he perceived her as a little girl. Sometimes she thought he may perceive her as a sister, though he claimed to have a sister of his own whom he referred to as Jellybean.

Still, she’d heard Charles refer to Jughead as his brother, and he’d told Betty time and time again—“I would trust Forsythe with my life and yours.” They were that close, and Jughead deferred to Charles almost to a fault.

She knew many things about Jughead Jones—about the things he liked, about the things he abhorred. She knew what books he enjoyed and what amusements he kept. He was heroic and brave and sullen. He was serious and protective. He liked a good meal and he seemed to like her company enough. 

When a room full of men suggested leaving for the smoke room, Jughead always said he momentarily needed to “escort Ms. Elizabeth” to the refreshment table, at which point he would make his escape, opting instead to accompany and amuse her. 

But at the moment, they were far from such niceties. This was not a fashionable soiree. 

“Stop gawking, Betty,” Jughead told her, snapping her back to the present. “You look too obviously mystified.”

A hot flush rose up her neck, her shoulders tightening with tension. She wanted Jughead to think that she was capable of holding her own in an environment like this. “I don’t mean to…”

He sighed, taking her hand and draping it over the hook of his arm. “Look straight ahead and stay close. No one will bother you if they see you’re with me.”

Her fingers flexed in his arm. Again, she felt her collar grow warm. 

She tripped and she held her skirt up desperately, hoping not to soil her clothing. The uneven ground was filthy and bug infested. She wanted nothing more than to leave the streets. Only Jughead’s strong hold on her kept her from falling and he stopped briefly to make sure that she was alright.

Betty saw some ill-dressed ladies nearby, laughing at her. Their teeth were blackened into rot.

Glass broke and foul language punctuated it. This was no place for her and Charles to be, and yet Charles walked deeper into it with confidence, knowing exactly where he was going. Jughead made no objections whatsoever.

The lights on the street were dim and the small alley they turned into was even dimmer, enlivened only by shifting bodies. There were candles, singular or in groups of two and three, and as Betty walked past them, she smelled an odd scent—like burning pickles.

“What’s that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Don’t inhale it,” was all Jughead said.

They finally stopped in front of a wooden door. Compared to everything else in that alley, which was wrought with decay and overuse, this door looked sturdy and impenetrable. Charles rapped the head of his cane upon it.

When the door opened, light spilled into the alleyway and Betty had to squint at the woman who stood at its threshold. She did not look any older than Charles and her face, though perhaps lovely on its own, was made steely by the ferocity in her eyes. She was dressed in a simple ladies’ pinafore, with embroidered detailing and lace sleeves. Her pointy black shoes looked durable and shiny, but she could tell by the word down heel that she wore these daily, just that she kept them well-maintained in spite of its constant use.

“And the forsaken meet again,” she said with a grin tainted by bitterness.

Charles did not see the humor of her words. “May we come in? This street is no place for a child.”

Betty scowled. She was _ thirteen. _

The woman’s eyebrow arched but she stepped aside and let them through. As soon as they stepped inside, the woman swung the door closed and slid three metal bolts through.

Perhaps seeing the surprise in her eyes, the woman told her, “You can never be too safe.”

“Thank you, Sabrina,” Charles said, taking his hat off and hanging it on a nearby rack. “For having us.”

In more gentle lighting, Betty saw that Sabrina’s face was not as steely as she first thought, and that the ferocity in her gaze had gentled. “I can never say no to you.”

Charles’s lips tightened to a line. Whatever that meant, it did not look like he was particularly pleased by what she said. “I thank you for this favor and wish to pay you handsomely.”

She shook her head, eyeing Jughead briefly as she told them to sit down. The furnishings were mismatched, though it was styled to make the room oddly cohesive in design. The small space was well furnished, overall. It was clean, and the décor was tasteful. This woman did not belong here, and yet here she was. 

Betty noted that some art had been painted against one wall, though it looked unfinished.

“The Ink Masters would’ve done this to her for free, you know that, don’t you?” Sabrina said as she brought in a tray of tea. 

“Of course I know that,” said Charles, quietly. “But I risk them taking Betty from me--from _ us _. I am not ready to take that risk. She is only thirteen.”

Sabrina snorted. “Some may consider that old enough for marriage.”

“Well, luckily enough for Betty, she is under Charles’s protection,” Jughead muttered.

Jughead shot Charles an anxious look. Charles’s only response was a reassuring nod. 

Betty wished that they shared their anxieties with her. Sometimes she felt like Charles and Jughead talked about her. She never heard them but sometimes one or the other would say something to her that seemed so parallel that they _ had _to be colluding.

Sabrina huffed. “They have better tools.”

“None of them are as gifted as you.”

Sabrina did not argue that point. “She is a little too old to get the mark. She should’ve gotten hers when she was ten, like young Master Jones over here.”

Jughead frowned. 

Sabrina responded with a smirk. “Her Daemon will come to her slowly or never at all.”

“We’ll take that chance.”

Sabrina stared at Charles and probably saw no chance that he would change his mind. “Does she know what to expect?”

“No.”

Sabrina looked at her and arched an eyebrow. “Best you don’t know, lass.”

When they finished tea, Sabrina began to lead her into another room. Betty clasped Jughead’s hand, resisting Sabrina’s summons. 

“Betts—“

“Oh, it’s no bother to me, Master Jones,” Sabrina said. “You can come along.”

Jughead looked over his shoulder at Charles, who nodded.

Betty was grateful that she didn’t have to go alone.

At the center of the workroom was a chair designed for stradling instead of sitting. It was designed to support one’s chest, shoulders, and chin, not one’s back. 

Sabrina had Betty settle on it. Pressing Betty forward by the shoulders, she carefully fitted Betty’s chin on a rest, and guided her arms onto planks to rest her arms. 

She pulled up another chair for Jughead to sit, close enough so that Jughead can keep holding her hand.

Sabrina loosened her own collar and began to fold up her sleeves.

Betty’s eyes widened as she saw the marks that covered Sabrina’s throat, chest, and arms. She had never seen a tattooed woman before.

Sabrina then crouched down to look her in the eyes. “You must trust me. Your brother does. Master Jones does, too, don’t you?”

Jughead shot her a withering glance but didn’t contradict her.

Betty nodded as much as her chin rest would allow.

Satisfied, Sabrina went behind her and Betty could hear her pulling up a stool and rolling a table closer to her. Sabrina began to undo the ties on the back of Betty’s dress and she made a sound of discomfort. The thought that she would be undressed in front of Jughead mortified her to no end.

“Settle down, child,” Sabrina said. “I will preserve your modesty. And Master Jones won’t look anyway, yeah?”

She could see his face turning red, but he nodded, looking Betty in the eyes. “It’s going to be alright.”

A cool breeze touched the entirety of her back and she felt Sabrina wipe the skin just underneath her nape with a damp cloth. It felt even cooler. 

Sabrina lit a match and the room began to smell like lavender. 

Betty felt Sabrina’s cool hands on her spine as Sabrina began to chant something under her breath. It was a rhythmic sound, in a language Betty did not know. Sabrina’s fingers pressed points on Betty’s back and this went on for several minutes. Betty began to feel sleepy. 

When Sabrina stopped chanting, Betty blinked at the silence. 

The silence stretched, and Betty craned her neck over her shoulder. She was horrified to see that her back was filled with long, almost hair-thin needles. And yet, she felt no pain.

“Stay still child,” said Sabrina sternly. She stood, heading for the door. “I will return. Do not move.”

Betty stifled her urge to cry and tried to do as she was told. She could hear Sabrina and Charles talking, but only if she listened very hard.

“Why did she leave, Jughead?” she asked, whispering.

Jughead shook his head. “I don’t know, but don’t worry. I’m not leaving you here by yourself. Now hush. I’m listening to what they’re saying.”

“Do you want this mark on her?” they heard Sabrina say.

There was a pause, then “She needs her mark,” said Charles in a firm tone. “She is a born Peace Dealer. We cannot deprive her of her Daemon.”

“I understand that, but this mark is bound to someone. I did not choose it—it chose _ her. _I know not who she will be bound to, but—”

“Do we have a choice?”

“It’s either she gets this mark or she gets none at all.”

“She doesn’t need to seek the other half of the mark. You said the same thing of Jughead years ago, and yet he is fine. Betty will do what she is meant to do without the bother of this other half.”

“The other half might lead her down a path I know you don’t want her to take. Do you want this mark on her?”

“It is her natural mark, isn’t it? And it will be a fierce protector. That is all I can ask.”

“We give her this mark, you run the risk of them discovering her.”

Charles paused, then said, “I will prepare her. As well as I could.”

“It will not be enough.”

“It will have to be.”

Sabrina sighed. “Fine. I can do something with it now. Mask it so that the Kin can’t easily track her. It will make her difficult to find—even for you. To make the mask effective, I would have to ink an enhancement. She will receive two tattoos tonight, but it will cost you dearly.”

“I am aware. Do it.”

There was another silence, and finally, Sabrina came back into the room. She sat back down behind Betty. “Why do I always get the special cases?” she muttered.

Betty held very still, and she could hear the soft ring of metal against metal. 

When that stopped, Sabrina took a deep breath and Betty heard the whir of something mechanical. Something was spinning very fast and Betty felt a little nervous.

“This will sting child,” said Sabrina. “You must bear it. It will be bearable for a while, but it will take time, and it may be less bearable later on. Tell me if you can bear it no longer, alright?”

“A-Alright.”

And when it began, the tiny sting of a needle piercing her again and again tingled through her body. She grit her teeth and bit her lip, staunching tears until she could no longer hold them back. She whimpered and cried, but she held still, and Jughead held her hand tight, wiping her tears for her with his handkerchief. 

That was the only thing that kept her from giving up in the face of unbearable pain.

************

When next Betty woke, she was at home, and she felt the bandages on her back and another on the underside of her left arm. Her mother stood by her bedroom door as she watched Charles press a cooling bottle over the dressing of Betty’s mark to ease the burning sting underneath. 

Betty did not know yet what this mark looked like and her mother did advise to keep it covered for the meantime.

“It would be a week before it’s fully healed. Daemon marks aren’t like regular tattoos,” Charles explained. “It is threading its lines into your soul. You will feel weak most of the day, but you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Betty could hardly bring herself to care about anything Charles said regarding the state of her body. All she wanted to do was lie in bed and possibly drift off again, and she did, until dinnertime. 

She felt slightly better when she woke, feeling strong enough to get out of bed and make herself presentable. 

Jughead came for dinner most nights now and she always looked forward to seeing him, if only to stare at him when he wasn’t looking. 

He was always so preoccupied with Charles’s instruction. Always heeding his advice on his lessons and training. 

Of course, Betty had long cottoned on to the fact that Jughead’s “job” was two-fold. 

Most days, Jughead was actually running errands for Charles’s steam engine manufacturing business. It was a small business compared to the titans running similar businesses from England, but Charles was optimistic it was a growing industry in America, and as far as return went, it appeared to be doing quite well, if the size of their house and the comfort of their lives were to be assessed. 

Charles would often say, “Who knows? You may inherit this business one day, Forsythe. Know it well.”

Jughead would scoff and Betty always wondered if Charles was joking. Aside from the fact that she, as a woman, wasn’t allowed to inherit any kind of estate, she could fathom how Charles loved Jughead enough to give him everything. 

Their mother, Alice, never contradicted him. She would merely sigh and roll her eyes. She never said anything about Jughead’s constant presence in their house and family functions, either, but she did seem to sigh a lot when Charles said something that enforced how well Charles thought of him. 

When Jughead wasn’t learning the steam engine business, however, he was helping Charles find lost spirits and crossing them over. The Southside, from where Jughead lived, was rife with restless ghosts and it seemed that the only two people who cared about helping them along were Betty’s brother and his ward. 

Betty wasn’t even allowed to accompany them. But for the one time they took her to Sabrina, Betty had never set foot on the Southside. 

It was an experience she wasn’t sure she was quite ready to repeat, but as she brushed her hair up into a ponytail and saw the bandages peeking from her high collar, she wondered if her mark meant that things were about to change. 

As she stared at the image in her looking glass, she noted how her neck seemed longer, how her green eyes seemed sharper. Her mother had allowed her to wear a hint of kohl and lip tint, enhancing what she considered to be her best features. 

Her lady’s maid had mentioned that her breasts needed to be corseted. “You got them, that’s for certain. Gentlemen will notice, so let’s brace ‘em.”

There was only one gentleman she hoped would notice, but honestly, he didn’t appear to care. 

She sighed, telling herself she ought to be content that he liked her conversation more than the way she looked. 

At least she could enjoy his company almost everyday. He even had his own room in the house-- when he stayed in it. He still often went home to his Southside residence, telling them that he needed to make sure his father wouldn’t get himself killed. 

She felt bad that he cared so much for someone who didn’t give him as much back, but that was how Jughead was. He loved to a fault. 

Jughead was, as expected, seated at the dinner table when she arrived, and both him and Charles stood to receive her.

“Feeling better?” Jughead asked, pulling back a chair for her. 

She thanked him as she sat, nodding as she unfurled a folded napkin and began to set it on her lap. “Yes, thank you. I did not expect to feel so tired.”

Alice reached for her wine glass. “Nobody does, but it’s old magic, and it’s powerful. If you’re tired, it just means it’s working.”

Charles nodded, picking up his fork and knife. “Of course it’s working. You’ll be up and about before you know it. I remember when I accompanied Forsythe--” he pointed his knife in Jughead’s direction “--he swore he wouldn’t pass out. You held out longer than he did, by the way.”

Betty turned to Jughead, grinning, and she saw Jughead rolling his eyes. “Miss Sabrina must have put something in the tea she gave me.”

Charles smirked. “You were always long and lanky, even at ten--Forsythe senior didn’t fancy carrying you around like a sack around those parts, his body incapacitated by your weight. The toughs would’ve seen naught but a wounded animal and robbed all three of us.”

Mention of Jughead’s father from Charles was rare among them, but everytime Charles mentioned him, it was always the three of them--Jughead, Charles, and Forsythe senior, as if it were some amusing memory. They were always quick mentions, never lengthy or nostalgic, like it had been edited down to the best parts, with the worst parts cut off. 

Betty felt this keenly, especially since Jughead told her that his father was a worthless drunk most times. 

“He was never the father Charles--I hoped he could be.” Jughead had once told her, a cigarette between his lips. 

She would never forget how, at the time, she was seated on a bench in their gardens and how Jughead sat on the grass by her bare feet. She had imagined him to be her suitor on his knees, speaking tenderly to her as he looked up at her with lovelorn eyes. 

The fact that he was smoking a cigarette without having asked her permission first, and how his back was mostly turned to her was something she could ignore in favor of her fantasies, especially when he _ had _looked up at her from his vantage point, smiling his rare, open smiles. “Charles is father enough for me, I think, so I’m not so mad about pap anymore.”

Betty remembered pulling lightly at a lock of his hair, something he didn’t mind her doing because she knew he saw her as a child. “Maybe you can live here forever.”

Jughead had chuckled. “Maybe while Charles rules this home. But what if you marry and your husband inherits this place? What of, then? He won’t want riff raff like me lurking in his lady’s house.”

She did not like it when he teased her about husbands and being beholden to a stranger. She did not fancy the idea of marriage, especially since she realized that hers would be done for convenience, as so many other ladies have had to do in their society.

Seeing the look on her face, Jughead had laughed and turned his back on her again. He did lean against her knee, however, which was something she could work into her fantasies even as the the smoke he blew from his lips carried to her face. 

“Do you mind ever so much?” she whined, waving the smoke away.

He laughed again, but to his credit, he did offer his apologies and he stamped the cigarette away. “I forget myself, _ Lady _ Elizabeth. No doubt, your husband-to-be would have treated you more dearly.”

She wished he would stop talking about this theoretical husband, especially because he never seemed to figure himself into that role, even for fun. 

“Maybe if you married me, you wouldn’t have to be sent away,” she boldly said. “Ladies marry for convenience, anyway. I might as well put my marriage obligations to good use—ensure that you’ll always have a place here.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “I doubt even Charles would allow that sort of arrangement. Not for his precious sister. I know, because he _ does _ mention looking for suitable bachelors for you when you come of age and I never figure in that list, so your plan is dead from the beginning. Besides, you are _ only eleven. _You needn’t worry about it for at least another five years.”

Sixteen, for her, was a deathknell. That Jughead saw her as such a child felt like a knife in her heart. 

She was eleven, as he pointed out, when they had that conversation. She wondered briefly if it would be different if they had that conversation now. 

In spite of himself, Jughead did seem to treat her more like a lady, lately. She was 13 now, and according to her lady’s maid, developing. He certainly thought her lady enough to pull out chairs for, and she did notice that when he wanted to smoke, he _ asked _her first now. Then again, he never shied away from holding her hand, which told her that he didn’t ever think unplatonic things about her. 

“Did you see what the mark looks like, Jug?” she asked in the middle of dinner. 

He reddened but never missed a beat, shaking his head. “I promised you I wouldn’t look and I didn’t.” He smirked. “Besides, you ought to be the first, I think. I wouldn’t take that away from you.”

He might never be romantic with her, but he was almost always so caring. 

“I can’t wait,” she said. 

Charles and Jughead exchanged amused looks. 

Betty seethed. She wished she wasn’t always such an amusement to them.

***************

When she planned to show Jughead her mark, she selected a lower cut dress and she let her hair down, just so she could pull her hair over her shoulders, like the heroines she read in her books, sweeping their hair aside for their lovers to fix the clasp of a necklace. 

He was in the library when she caught him and showed him her mark. He had stayed silent for two heartbeats. “It looks like mine.” He finally said, his eyes never leaving her mark.

She laughed. “Silly. What do you mean?”

_ “It looks like mine.” _ His voice was soft, like his mind was racing with a million thoughts. “But for the broader silhouette of my mark’s shoulders, it looks just like yours…”

The warm touch of his finger on her skin surprised her, but when an unexpected wave of pleasurable warmth spread through her, she found herself closing her eyes, feeling boneless and bathed in hypnotic calm.

She breathed, realizing that Jughead’s hand was splayed in the crook between her neck and shoulder, and his finger, possibly his thumb, was tracing the line of her spine, or perhaps the shape of her mark.

She must have said something under her breath. She couldn’t quite remember, but in a moment, Jughead was gone, stepping away as he looked at his palm in slowly increasing shock. The tingle that spread through her body originated from her mark, and she gaped, wondering why she suddenly felt so completely removed from him. 

“What just happened?” he asked, staring at his hand and then at her. “What just happened there?”

She didn’t know what to say, except that it felt good and it felt right. Maybe it was the opposite for him. “Was it terrible for you?”

Several heartbeats passed before he replied. “It was anything but terrible.”

She motioned to speak but he turned to leave. “I have to go. Father asked that I don’t stay out too late. That he wants me home by dinner.”

“But you just got here--”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing. You seem quite well. Say hello to Charles for me.”

He was gone, and Betty stood there, wondering if she had done something wrong. 

Instinct told her that what happened between them was no common thing, and that the extraordinary was not always met with enthusiasm. Charles had taught them that people feared the unknown and would do all they can to preserve the status quo. This felt like the unknown. It felt like something they needed to keep between them. 

Betty wasn’t sure if she could learn more, but there were still many books in the library that she hadn’t yet read. She may find her answers among the shelves, yet. 

Then again, she could go to the person who inked her mark. 

She had a feeling Sabrina knew exactly what happened to them. 

***************

The ideal course was for Betty to ask that Jughead escort her to Sabrina’s hovel. She understood the difficulties. Charles would never let her go without him and Jughead didn’t want to gainsay the man he looked up to. 

To convince Jughead to do this in secret was hard enough, but to convince him that this should be done in the dead of night, where she can sneak out of her house to gallivant in the Southside was near impossible. 

He refused, and he refused again. 

“But Juggie--!”

_ “Don’t,” _he said, forestalling her. “I won’t do it.”

“Then I’ll go alone,” she huffed, determined to do so even if the prospect terrified her. 

“That is a spectacularly horrible idea,” he replied through grit teeth. “If you dare, I will tell Charles.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened? Doesn’t it make you wonder?” she cried. 

His fingers ruffled his hair and ran down his face in frustration. “It does, but we seem fine. There appears to be no after-effects. It means nothing, Betty!”

He could be right. It could mean absolutely nothing. But what if it was something?

As frightening as it was, she made plans to steal out of the house in the dead of night. A carriage certainly wouldn’t be able to bring her to the Southside--not at that hour, unless she bribed their coachman, but if Jughead threatened to tell on her, the coachman would surely rat her out to Charles. 

She could use a bicycle. They had a few stored in the carriage house for the errand boy. It was perfect for her midnight excursion. It would be a rather long and sometimes strenuous trip for her, but she was equal to it. Charles’s training of her gave her endurance. She would be perfectly capable of cycling to and from the Southside _ and _make it back to catch a few hours of sleep before breakfast. 

She needed a disguise, she realized. It would be folly to go out by herself at that hour. She would be found out in a second. She had to go out as a boy. 

This, she realized, was the hardest part of the plan. She couldn’t possibly use Charles’s old things, if they were even wearable. They would look too expensive. She needed clothes that looked well-worn, handed down from master to servant. Something that would make her one among a crowd. 

She bribed the errand boy for these clothes, telling him that she needed it for a lark--a prank for the coming all-hallows eve celebrations, which was more than a month away, but the errand boy perhaps could not have cared any less what her reasons were. He procured the clothes and shoes, took her money, and didn’t ask questions. 

She was ready. She just needed to pick a night.

As she stared at her calendar, she realized that she had been so busy preparing for her mission that she hadn’t noticed Forsythe’s upcoming birthday. He was about to turn 18. 

***************

18 was such a significant number for their kind, Charles said. It was a time of change. It was when those of the Daemon Kin were awakened to their powers. It also tended to be a time of great upheaval, where decisions were made and paths were chosen. 

Most of the time, it was also an occasion marked by celebration. 

Charles made plans for Jughead. 

“We can’t have a party, you understand,” Charles told her as they ran errands in town together. “I’d have to make up some lie for everyone to swallow--they gibber enough about Forsythe’s strange arrangements in our home as it is, and besides that, Forsythe would never forgive me if we threw a party for him. But I think he would appreciate a trip to the rocklands, something close to what you and I did all those years ago, but perhaps with a bit more style, a bit more preparation, so that our tents would be better, our sleeping bags more comfortable--a more glamorous camping trip, where you, he, and I could huddle in a tent, have a fire outside, hunt deer, and swim in the river. And then--well, it’s a surprise. Do you think he’d like that?”

Betty nodded enthusiastically. Jughead would enjoy a camping trip. The very idea that they would isolate themselves from society would appeal to a curmudgeon like him. And with his two favorite people, no less. 

Charles had planned to tell Jughead about the trip the day before--Jughead’s schedule was always open for them. That, or he simply refused to socialize with anyone outside of their circle.

But when Jughead arrived at their home on the evening of October first, he caught her and Charles at the library. 

He stood above them in the light of the hearth and said, “My mother’s come to town--has been in town, actually.”

Charles’s eyebrow arched and Betty scrambled to find the words. She knew that Jughead’s mother had left him when he was but 9, taking with her his little sister. Gladys Jones was never a welcome topic and whenever Jughead did bring her up, it almost always seemed to Betty like gouging out old wounds. 

“Well, what does that mean?” Betty asked. 

“Why, after all this time, Forsythe?” Charles asked, but before Jughead muster a response, Charles shook his head. “Nevermind that--it doesn’t matter. Would you like to live here for the duration of her stay? You know you’re always welcome here. You never need to ask--”

“She came for my birthday. She came to take us back.”

Charles stopped speaking. 

Betty did the opposite of that. “Take you back? Take you back where? What--”

“Take back her family, she said.” Jughead’s eyes lowered then, but Betty could see that they were going liquid. 

Anger filled her heart--for the woman who broke a little boy and never cared enough make up for it before. “How dare she? After all this time--”

“Betty,” Jughead interrupted, his tone firm. Resolved. “I want to give her a chance.”

This was like him. This was just like him. He was so brave and strong, but he was soft for his drunken father, clearly forgiving of his negligent mother. Neither of them deserved him. 

“But--”

“What did she propose, Jughead?” Charles’s tone was quiet as he placed a firm hand on Betty’s shoulder. 

Jughead took a deep breath. “She wants to move us to the city. To New York city. She said she has a position with the Guild--has had it for the last two years. It has earned her prominence and stature. She has for us a house like this to live in, a life that we would be proud of.”

Charles’s lips pursed. “The Guild. That is Kin society, lad. Once you let yourself, everything I’ve ever taught you, everything you’ve ever learned from me will be rendered insignificant by their ways--”

“I can make a difference,” Jughead said, a rough edge to his tone. 

“And find yourself Forsaken?” Charles hissed back. 

They stood there, staring at one another. 

Charles stepped forward. “That is not what I want for you, Jughead. You are my brother. I want for you to prosper. Do you believe her? Is there veracity to her claims?”

“She is a woman,” Betty blurted out. “How can she have a trade? How can she _ own anything?” _

Charles cast her a sympathetic look. “The ways of the Imperium—the Kin, are different from that of the Daemon Locked.”

Betty stood mystified by all of these new words: The Guild, the Imperium, Daemon Locked, _ women who owned property. _It was beyond her knowledge, and she was equal parts furious and confounded.

Jughead confirmed Charles’s question with a nod. “My mother is a great many things, but she was never a liar. She is telling the truth.”

It began to dawn on Betty that they were talking about Jughead living somewhere else. In a place she could not so easily go to. “Well, when are you coming back?”

Jughead’s gaze darted to her, and when she saw the tears, something inside her began to rip in two. 

“You’re not coming back,” she whispered, her eyes growing achingly tight. 

His breath hitched, and he seemed to be forcing a smile to his lips. “I would like to, Betty. So much, but--”

“He is going to live with the Kin,” Charles finished for him. “Once he is among them, he cannot associate with the Forsaken. He cannot write, he cannot come back, else they will find me and kill me, then they will take you, because you are underaged and they like to get you while you’re young.”

_ The Forsaken meet again. _

“And then they will Forsake him, too,” Charles added. “Jughead deserves better than that.”

Betty’s resolve broke, and sobbing, she ran into Jughead’s arms, her tears soiling the front of his shirt. His arms held her tight, his lips falling upon the top of her head.

She stood huddled in his embrace, crying into his heart. In the background, she heard Charles say that after they were done, Jughead must come to his study. 

Charles left, and only when they were alone did Betty thump her fist against Jughead’s chest. 

“You are my _ best friend,” _she cried. “You were to move here when you came of age, remember? You would stay here until my theoretical husband tried to kick you out and I had to fight him. How could you leave me so soon?”

The corners of his lips lifted into a painful smile, his own tears falling upon his cheeks. He held her face in his hands. “I will always be your best friend. No place or circumstance could change that.”

“But you _ won’t _be here!”

“You are stronger than this,” he hissed. “Betty Cooper, didn’t you promise that what I can do, you can do better?”

She placed her own hands upon his. “Shut, you. I never planned to do that without you.”

He looked upon her with the fondest eyes, and she didn’t care if he never saw her as anything more than a little girl. She just didn’t want him to leave.

His thumb wiped the tears beneath her eyes. “You are destined for great things, Betty.”

He didn’t know that. He wasn’t a soothsayer, but it meant everything to her that he believed in her. 

She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she was afraid that her eyes would give her away—that he would know that her love was more than familial. 

“I was going to go to Sabrina,” she confessed. “By myself. To ask her about my mark.” 

“Betty,” he said in a gently chastising tone.

“I may still go—distract me from your leaving.”

“Sabrina is gone. She left soon after she marked you. I know, because I checked, and I checked because you kept asking and I didn’t want you to get any fool ideas about sneaking out unaccompanied.”

She couldn’t believe he went behind her back. She couldn’t believe he so easily knew what she was going to do.

“You are the only person who understands me,” she told him in a plaintive voice.

“Charles understands you.”

“He is my big brother. I can’t tell him my secrets the way I tell them to you.”

His eye began to fill again. “I will miss you so, Betty.”

There were no words enough to tell him how devastated she would be by his leaving. So she sank back into his arms, relishing these last few moments she would have with him for a long time.

***************

The day Jughead left was Betty’s first heartbreak.

She took a carriage to the train station, against Charles’s wishes, and rushed through the crowds to find Jughead’s train.

She was caught in a frenzy, realizing too late that she quite possibly may never see Jughead again, and the idea that he would never know how she felt scared her. It made so little sense, but she felt a real sense of urgency, and so here she was, her confession nearly choking her. 

She saw him, already settled in his seat, the whistle of the steam engine loud and shrill.

Above the din of bustling travelers and the slow chug of the train’s engine, Betty screamed Jughead’s name as she bound towards his window seat.

He turned at her voice, which had miraculously cut through the noise, and when he saw her, he at first looked shocked, then glad, and then he looked so impossibly worried. 

She pushed forward, determined, because his train was moving and she didn’t have a lot of time.

“Betty!” he cried back, leaning out through the window as she kept up the pace. He reached for her and their hands clasped. “You must stand back! You can get hurt!”

“I can’t let you go without telling you!” she said as loudly as she could. She didn’t care if anyone else heard. 

“Betty, be careful!”

“I love you, Jughead! Do you hear me? With all my heart!” She didn’t feel like she needed to explain. She had no doubt that her eyes and her face conveyed exactly what she meant. He knew her enough to understand. 

And when she said them, she could see his expression change from worry to wonder, then regret. His grip on her hand loosened and her fingers fell away.

He said nothing back. Nothing at all, and when the platform ran out, Betty had nothing except the image of him pulling away. Leaving. Disappearing into the distance. 

She cried on the platform, alone and distraught, because Jughead Jones had not said the words back.

******************

When Betty turned eighteen, her world turned completely upside down. 

It had been tilting for many years already, slowly going askew as she helped wandering spirits find peace or whenever she delivered the living from the torment of the dead. She watched her life going sideways each time she put away a Wraith or sealed off the powers of a summoner. She did her duties behind a veil, because Charles told her to stay in the shadows. 

When Jughead left, Charles intensified her training, and he told her that with Jughead gone, she was all that was left to carry out their work. 

Charles was demanding, even difficult, but she bore it with steely resolve, and she handled the challenges it brought with the skills Charles made certain she had acquired.

She felt prepared.

Until she wasn’t. 

It was an accident. Or so they claimed.

Betty and her mother were told that he had fallen off his horse and fell badly--broke his neck on impact. No one was with him when he died, only that he had been missing from the hunting party for hours, and that when they found him, he was already dead. Betty’s grief could only be measured by her bitterness. He did not even enjoy hunting by horse. He had only done it to entertain a client. It could have been avoided. Betty was inconsolable for weeks.

Charles, her teacher, her mentor, the only friend she had left, was lost to her forever, too. She had lived her life, to that point, believing that she would be at Charles’s arm her entire life, that his death would come at old age. 

He was so full of life, so strong. Nothing could possibly kill him except a body grown aged and weary. And yet he had died in the prime of his life. 

Betty did not think she could possibly go on. She mourned alone for weeks on end and not even her mother could console her. And when she had come out of her room and faced her life without him, she mourned him for months, in black. 

And after she and her mother had to shed the black, she was finally forced to confront the realities and practicalities of the loss, of inheritance, or rather—the lack thereof.

It was only then she began to wonder, when Charles's spirit did not manifest--how he could rest peacefully when she and her mother had been left with nothing. Their home and their wealth, so indisputably Charles's, could not go to them by law, because women could not inherit in the realm of the Daemon Locked.

There was a will, they were told, but the properties had gotten bequeathed to someone else—_ someone, _ the solicitor said, who bore with him the keys to Charles’s vault. She didn’t even know Charles had a vault. All Charles left her was a timepiece. A watch, it seemed, that didn’t even look attractive enough to be sold.

How can he possibly think that the timepiece he left her, with a note as delivered by his solicitor,--valued so little that she could not even exchange it for money at the pawnshop--would be enough?

It wasn't enough, but there was no sign of his ghost. No sign that Betty and her mother's ruination troubled him at all.

Betty,

If you have this watch, it means I perished. If you find yourself desperate and without hope, turn the dial. But beware, and remember everything I taught you.

-Charles

That was all the note said.

So she turned the dial, half expecting that the world would stand still. But nothing happened, except that the watch started to run, and she grew all too aware that her life, without Charles, was going to be a bit more difficult than she anticipated.

Tbc


	2. Deathly Inconveniences

There was a melody, faint like cobwebs, whistling through the cracks and nooks of the house. 

As Betty stood at the threshold of her bedroom door, staring down the dark and chilly hallway, a copper coin lay, Britannia side-up, at her feet. 

She picked it up and examined it. It felt colder than ice. 

Betty wondered where this Queen’s halfpenny came from, as her mother was not in the habit of leaving currency--even foreign ones--lying around just for anyone, ghost or living, to take. 

The trace sounds of a birthday song hung then waned in the air and Betty looked around the otherwise empty hallway.

“Laura?”

The faded image of red silk and black lace bled into the darkness. The translucent mottled skin of the woman wearing it gleamed atop the low collar. It was riddled with brown veins and the trace mark of the rope that killed her just around her throat. 

Laura’s blue lips hardly moved. “It was all I can manage.”

The coin would’ve been a herculean effort for one such as herself. Spirits could move things--a nudge here and a bump there, but to _ put _an object somewhere specific--it required a great degree of emotion and energy. 

That Laura was able to visually manifest at all tonight after that effort was a feat in itself. 

“Thank you, Laura. You didn’t have to.” Betty pocketed the coin, letting Laura stay in the shadows. 

Her birthday had been weeks ago—Laura wasn’t even dead at the time, but Betty must have mentioned it somehow in their brief conversations, and in Laura’s spiritual turmoil, that day could have been today. It was impossible for ghosts to keep track of time. They came and went, never knowing what day it was. Never understanding how many hours or days had passed.

“You are twenty and one, now?” Laura asked. 

Betty chuckled. “Nineteen.”

Laura frowned. “Much too young to return to the place of my death.”

Betty tried not to laugh. “And how would you know that is where I’m going?”

“You look nothing like a lady.”

Betty knew that wasn’t meant to be an insult. “And have you remembered anything else of your place of death?”

Laura frowned, moving back into the shadows. “Brick, sky, and a pig. With spots. Stay home, Betty.”

She faded before Betty could ask for more clarification. 

Laura had a strong sense of propriety, for a prostitute. She had a strong opinion in general, for a ghost. She objected to the misbehaviors Betty exhibited, telling her that if any man were to perceive what she had been up to, she would be rendered completely unmarriageable—a tragedy, no doubt, to most of the Daemon Locked. Laura held out hope that Betty could avert disaster--from the burgeoning threat of spinsterhood. 

Betty didn’t have the heart to tell her that her last shred of marriageability waned with the reading of her brother’s will two days ago.

The proprieties set for her gender seemed insignificant given that their time upon this home and lifestyle were, in the banker’s turn of phrase, numbered.

She knew that Charles was not a big believer of banks. He had scoffed at the idea of handing over his money to strangers and letting them do with it as they will. He had an accountant to record every cent, but Betty was under the impression that he kept all his currency in his personal vault. It was only two days ago that she and her mother discovered that he kept a vault in the bank, too, the keys of which had been bequeath to an unnamed stranger.

The contents of Charles’s safe _ at home _was what Betty and her mother have been living on since his death, and while they have been frugal in the depletion of it, they were ever aware of the waning pile. 

Betty had, on several occasions, taken to exchanging her dresses for coin. Her wardrobe, too, was thinning. They were, as the saying went, hanging by the thread of her silk gowns. 

The bankers, well aware of the contents of this supposed vault, even if they weren’t allowed to touch it, and they were already grumbling about government orders to seize possession of it, invoking federal powers to take what wasn’t theirs. 

Alice made clear her thoughts on their insinuations. _ “Someone _is in possession of those vault keys, gentlemen, and so long as that person lives, you have no right to take my dead son’s personal property. That would make all of you thieves, if you aren’t already by some other means.”

This “person” might as well be some fictional character in a novel. The only other clue the will left of this mystery, other than the key connection, was that the person was male and that he was a blood relative.

Betty knew not of any other blood relatives except her father, whom her brother and mother had said was lost at sea shorty after she was born. Betty’s older sister, had she survived her own birth, would not have made a difference, given her gender. 

When Betty asked her mother if she knew of any blood relatives, Alice merely arched an eyebrow and said, “Well, of course I know of blood relatives.” And that was the end of that discussion. Alice would tell her no more. 

Betty was somewhat holding out hope that this mystery man would let them keep their home and perhaps let them have all that Charles left behind. At the very least--help them sell the house so they could move into a more manageable apartment in town, living off the remains of Charles’s wealth until--she suspected, Alice found her a suitable husband. 

Because honestly, that was the only recourse they had left. Betty could keep three shopgirl jobs at once and it still wouldn’t be enough to keep them out of poverty. 

Betty was almost tempted to sell her ability to talk to spirits, mostly to the Daemon Locked who seem obsessed with the paranormal, but first of all, Charles did not raise her that way, and secondly, people seemed to have gotten it in their heads that one can summon dead relatives at will. 

There were several things that could go wrong with that last bit. 

Summoning dead people was certainly possible--Betty had read as much in the textbooks that Charles had made her read, but there was no summoning _ specific _people, unless you were lucky enough to have them around, and summoning the dead meant the spirit had to be plane-bound in the first place. 

A spirit that had crossed over needed a _ different _ level of summoning, and one _ can _go so far as to summon someone specific then, but doing so also came with a great price that few people were willing to pay; all sorts of horrific acts and sacrifices like murder, severed limbs of any kind, the soul of another, the release of a Daemon--Betty would never perpetuate this practice, even if someone else was willing to do the killing, severing, or sacrificing.

With all these improbable scenarios that the Daemon Locked seemed to expect, the only recourse for anyone who talked to spirits (or those who couldn’t, really) was fraud. 

Fraud would have to be employed to make the Daemon Locked believe that they could communicate with their dead loved ones, because it was that belief that would compel them to pay for your “services” and that was not the kind of business Betty wanted to run. 

Charles would turn in his grave, and if Jughead were there, he would scold her for such shenanigans. Sometimes, she imagined hearing Jughead’s voice in her head, still, often when she was doing something questionable, or inappropriate, or most often illegal. 

_ Of course. _

If she were a man, none of this would matter. Half the things she did now would _ not _ be considered questionable or inappropriate and she would be running the legitimate business Charles left behind. She would be the master of the house, and she would not have to marry anybody unless she wanted to. 

Sighing, she looked up from her thoughts and did not see Laura’s spirit anymore. She could feel it, however. Her presence still hung in the air. 

Laura’s body had been found hanging from a rope in a hovel and the constabulary ruled it a suicide, and yet Laura’s spirit insisted that she would do no such thing. Some ghosts remembered everything immediately, while some couldn’t remember a thing for weeks. The shock of death can befuddled ghosts. The more traumatic the death, the more confused they became and it was cases like these where Betty had to go out of her way to find the truth. 

“I will find out what happened to you, Laura,” she said to the empty hallway. “I will give you the answers you seek.”

The slightest of breezes stirred her blouse and that was acknowledgement enough for Betty. 

She stepped out in the hallway, making her way down the stairs and past the parlor, light on her feet and keeping to the shadows out of habit. 

When the house was fully staffed, she was careful not to be caught escaping, but now they only had one maid and their coachman—the former being a heavy sleeper and the latter living elsewhere, only coming in for work in the morning. 

Nowadays, she could come and go without fear of being caught and causing a scandal. 

As she rounded the corner to head for the kitchens and the back door, she collided with an unexpected obstruction, their bodies knocking in the dark. 

Betty bit her lip to stifle her cries while her mother hissed under her breath in surprise. 

“Betty! What are you doing up at--_ oh.” _ There was hardly any light to see by--they did not want to waste fuel, but there was _ some _light filtering from the kitchen, and the faint glimmer of it fell upon Betty’s clothing. 

Her graying and frayed trousers, men’s blouse, brown suspenders and worn-leather boilerman cap fit her well, but more importantly, it erased all manner of means to tell she was a woman in disguise. Her hair had been gathered up in a tight bun inside her cap--if her hat fell off, it would give her entire identity away, but she never engaged in activity that would put her in that position. 

Alice took in her overall appearance and Betty could see her mother’s disapproval, but before Alice could say anything else, Betty shot back with, “Making your laudanum tea?”

This caused Alice to purse her lips momentarily. Her perfectly coiffed hair moved not an inch, so tightly wound that Betty could swear that her mother couldn’t undo it to save her life. “I tried it _ one time _and you’d think I had set up a drug den in the parlor. Do not change the subject. Are you headed to the Southside?”

“I need to see Dr. Masters.” There was no way around such a direct question.

“The Barber.”

_ “He is a doctor.” _

Alice waved her words away. “For you, or for the dead?”

Betty rolled her eyes. “If I needed to see the doctor for myself, I could do it in the light of day, mother. Why else would I do it in the cover of night?”

Alice scoffed. “Women have been known to go to doctors--particularly barbers, at night, my dear, but I suppose I ought to be thankful you don’t know that.”

Betty’s face reddened to a fine pinot noir. She _ knew _ why women went to doctors or--as the phrase went-- _ practitioners _ in the cover of night. She just didn’t think her mother would expect such a thing from her. “I _ know _women do that, mother, but unless I have some unknown Kin ability for virgin conception, how did you even think that scenario possible with me?”

The exasperation rolled heavily in Alice’s eyes. “Isn’t it enough that you are past 18 and unengaged? Must you be so actively unmarriageable?”

If there ever was a topic so unappealing to Betty, it was this. She took a moment to breathe, quieting her temper. “I must go. The earlier I set out, the earlier I can return, and we have an early start to the day tomorrow. After all, the business of marriageability waits not for the tardy—”

“Oh, spare me your sarcasm. You’d think that making nice with eligible gentlemen would be more appealing to you than making back deals with hoodlums.”

“It is far more exhausting to play nice with gentlemen who pretend to like me for my personality when it’s Charles’s coffers that they want. You and I both know that a gentleman’s regard has the propensity to grow flexible in the face of fortune, or the lack of it.”

That Alice didn’t seem willing to argue the point was telling of the truth of Betty’s words. “Do you have money for this excursion?” she asked, instead.

Betty held up a bag and undid the ties closing it. The pink ruffled and rich material flounced out of its opening and Alice’s lips straightened to a grim line.

Alice’s soft scoff followed. “You are determined to deplete your wardrobe down to your ugliest pieces.”

“To my _ practical _ pieces. I am giving up my more frivolous gowns. It is as much trouble keeping them as selling them off, and as you may have noticed, nobody likes a woman past her salad days wearing too much pink and baby blues. Such _ audacity _\--”

Alice’s fan, which as far as Betty was concerned, had been plucked out of thin air, swatted the back of Betty’s hand. “Enough. The mouth on you. Say anymore and I _ will _ resort to laudanum. Run along and be careful. I swear it, Betty. If you manage to get yourself killed, I will be more than a little vexed with you.”

************************ 

Betty adjusted the cap on her head, pulling it lower over her grease-stained face. The smell of her shirt was not becoming of a lady. 

It was not unpleasant, but no French perfume freshened it. No sweet smelling soap masked the stench of unkempt Southside streets. And clean as her shirt was, it looked old, threadbare in places, and mended repeatedly. She had no doubt that it was a well-crafted piece of clothing--its good quality was evident at the seams, but like so many laborers’ clothing worn by the men all around her, it was a hand-me-down from its glory days. 

Betty had to fold the sleeves to her wrists, lest the holes in the cuffs make her look too decrepit. Thankfully, the suspenders that held up her trousers were dependably durable. Those were new, but she had stained them to dull their sheen. Absolutely nothing should give away that she did not belong in this wretched place.

Her workmen’s boots were only slightly too big for her--to mask the smallness of her feet. Charles bought these for her special, and they were comfortable with two layers of knitted socks.

With her hair tied and hidden in her cap, she looked like a young man. With a scarf around her neck, it was even easier to hide whatever delicacy her coat could not mask.

Over her shoulder, her sack look filled to bursting--a parasol, gloves, and a divinely laced dress. It would fetch her a nice price—enough to get her the money she needed.

Southside, even so late at night, was abuzz with activity.

She walked its streets with assured strides, certain of where she wanted to go and utterly comfortable of her surroundings. She need not look at the shop signs to know what she was looking for. 

She had been to this part of Southside countless times, many times alone. She knew her way around and she knew to whom she could go to for help--or at least whom she could pay for help.

The pawnshop was a familiar place. It looked like a proper establishment, were it not situated in one of the most unsavory parts of the city. It’s shop windows were littered with junk arranged to look like the treasure room of a rather decrepit sultan--beady-eyed dolls with bright red blush on its cheeks and gleaming, mismatched toy drums with yellowing batter heads were interspersed with intricately decorated hookahs and exotic jars. Embellished shawls, strung beads, and imitation jewelry served as backdrop.

The lettering on the marquee said Sweet’s Emporium. 

This was not a candy shop. 

The door chimed as she pushed it open, and the man behind the counter was better dressed than his customers. His floors were made of marble, and the glass cases lining the walls of his shop were filled with curiosities.

Behind him was his vault, guarded by two men, one armed with a club and another with a mace, both of whom were threatening enough without weapons. The shopkeeper himself was known to keep a gun within easy reach beneath his counter. She had heard it was always locked and loaded.

The pawnsmith himself was a polished looking man, with strong arms and a charming demeanor. His face was beard free, but the youthfulness of it was hardened by the arrogant smirk on his lips and the ruthlessness of his eyes. 

Were it not for his notorious habits at the whorehouses and gambling dens, he might have been richer, but he appeared to rule this part of town--everyone owing him something. It was rumored that his pawnshop was his legitimate business, and that he was involved it much more unsavory transactions. 

Everyone in town called him Sweet Pea, but there was nothing sweet about him, and perhaps that was the joke.

She cared not. His pawnshop was useful to her.

"Well," said the pawnsmith from his shop stool. "If it isn't the pretty boy, come to sell his stolen wares again."

"Stolen?" she said in a perfectly innocent, but perfectly altered baritone. "Not at all. I was given these. I would never pawn stolen goods and get you in trouble, Sweet Pea."

Everything she told him was true, and that was perhaps why Sweet Pea always looked upon her with suspicion and awe. He could not catch her lie. He could not catch her tells. Whether he knew she was a woman in disguise, he never let on if he did or didn’t. Perhaps he didn’t care so long as she was bringing him quality goods.

Sweet Pea left his stool and leaned on the counter. "Give it here, lad."

She swung her sack onto the counter and emptied its contents. The dress, the gloves, and parasol spilled out in a lovely array of lace and perfume.

Sweet Pea whistled. "How do you get such lovely gifts, boy? I can still smell the lady on them."

His toothy grin made Betty ill, but she showed none of her disgust and winked. "I'm a hard worker."

Which was only true if he knew that Charles had rewarded her academic and training efforts with all sorts of things once upon a time. She got the best of everything, because she lived a privileged existence that way. Sweet Pea, of course had a completely different take on it.

He laughed, eyeing her with barely veiled admiration. "Two dollars"

"What! This is _ Parisian _. Worth at least five dollars for all of them!" And she very well knew Charles had paid more for the price of the dress alone.

"And what'll you do if I take this now and give you nothing back?"

_ I'd sneak into your shop and steal the damn things right back. _

But she didn't say it, because if she did that, Sweet Pea would see her dead, whether or not he had proof that she did it. "Come on, now. I've never known you to be a dishonest man. I'll take four dollars. I'm sure you'll get a pretty penny for this ensemble."

Sweet Pea smirked. "Only because I like you, Chic." He counted out three dollars and smaller coins and said nothing more as he gathered the things to put them away.

Betty quietly gathered her earnings. She had hoped for more but expected this. If she wanted a fair pawn, she should have gone to the dressmaker, but that would have caused a scandal, whether she went as herself or as her boy persona, Chic.

"Nice doing business with you," she muttered under her breath as she scampered out of the shop.

Making her way through the grimy streets and noisy pubs, she soon came upon the old and ill-maintained coroner’s office, just a few blocks off the constabulary. 

She approached the building and jumped the low wall that would allow her passage to the back entrance. The front door would have necessitated walking through a group of inquisitive body dealers that tended to loiter in the lobby, waiting for the next John or Jane Smith that they could sell to the medical school the next town over, or even just the local surgeons. 

She kicked the rusty back door open and the stench of decaying bodies assaulted her immediately. Gagging, she whipped out a handkerchief and tied it around her face, hoping it would help her get through the hallways without emptying the contents of her stomach on the floor. On the third door on the right, she knocked and waited.

A small shuffle whispered from the other side, and moments later, a large man with dark skin and fine clothing opened the door. He wore an apron and rubber gloves, and both were stained with blood and other bodily fluids. The hard look on his face softened when he realized who it was.

"Chic. I should have known. Come in."

Betty nodded, her nose still hadn’t adapted to the smell. She always had a handkerchief over her face whenever she came here and she still couldn’t quite get used to the smell of the place. A hint of formaldehyde masked the rot, but it wasn’t enough to overpower the offensive stench. 

"Thank you, Dr. Masters," said Betty with a tip of her hat. 

He removed a soiled glove and barehanded, he reached for a jar perched on a table by the door. He did not, however, pick up the bottle. Instead, he took the porcelain rod dipped in its mouth and stirred its contents. As he pulled the rod from the container, he swirled the tip of it, gathering the substance on the end. “Hold out your finger.”

It was a filmy substance, thick and medicinal, but she did hold out her hand, and Dr. Masters shook a small drop of it on the tip of her finger. 

“It’s eucalyptus compound. Rub it under your nose. It will help with the smell.”

Betty had little reason to distrust Dr. Masters. He was a physician whom many in the Southside relied on to heal them, but the poverty of his patients necessitated this second occupation as a coroner. 

At night, they called him “The Barber”, where he signed for unidentified and unclaimed bodies, waiting for body dealers willing to buy human remains who would then sell it to the physicians’ academy in the next town.

Betty didn’t need bodies, but she did have questions about them on occasion, and while she didn’t have to pay him full price for autopsies, he did charge a fee for cutting up bodies before he sold them to body dealers. 

“They pay less for pre-examined bodies,” Dr. Masters explained. “The academy will buy anything available, but the more pristine the corpse, the higher its value.”

The Southside was a hard place to live and she had been amongst its residents long enough to understand how they lived their lives, surviving in an environment where they had no one but themselves to rely on.

Betty rubbed the eucalyptus compound above her lip and immediately, its minty scent cut through the rot. It was a relief. “Thank you. It helps. Have you examined Laura’s body yet?” She took coins from her pocket and handed them to Dr. Masters. 

He nodded, taking the money and putting it away without counting. 

When she was Chic, pleasantries were minimal. “It is like the constabulary said--she expired by asphyxiation. The ligature marks around her neck told me there was a thick rope involved, but there were additional, unlikely marks that made me think that perhaps the rope was just used to hang her body.” 

Betty noted the wording immediately. “Hang her body? It was hung after death? What killed her then?”

Dr. Masters motioned for her to follow him to an examination table, where a white blanket had been draped over a body. He carefully pulled back the sheet, leaving only the face and part of its shoulder exposed.

It was Laura as Betty knew her, pale and decomposing. If Betty weren’t talking to her spirit, her body seemed serene in repose, her eyes closed and her face free of agony. 

Dr. Masters pointed to the deeply dark bruise at the center of her throat. Betty could make out the stitching from the doctor’s examination. “Do you see those darker knots just off the rope marks?” 

Betty nodded, seeing the odd, misplaced spotting. 

The doctor put his hands around Laura’s neck. “The marks approximately line up with the grip of hands, and those dark spots--those are rings. Three or four, you see? And when I examined her throat more closely, I saw that her hyoid bone was crushed, which can happen in a hanging, but more commonly for older individuals. Ms. Laura is young, so that is less likely the case here. It was more likely her hyoid bone was crushed by the vice grip of a hand.”

“Strangulation,” Betty whispered, unsurprised. “She would have been staring into her murderer’s eyes.”

“If the dead could speak.”

In Betty’s experience, they did. All the time. 

*********************** 

Ghosts didn’t always have accurate memories. They forgot events, they remembered faces but not their names, they remembered places but not where they were. The trauma of their deaths often left them confused and distraught for days, even weeks. 

Clarity came slow, but it didn’t do to wait too long for the dead to remember. The longer spirits stayed in the realm of the living, the more likely they could get corrupted and become a menace. 

Spirits needed to be crossed over and the only way to do that was to undo the ties that held them on this plane. 

When people die, a portal to the spirit realm opens for them and a spirit is expected to walk through it. It is when these souls ignore that portal that they became restless spirits. It is only when spirits feel ready to finally leave do the portals to the spirit realm open for them again. 

Spirits stay because they are unable to let go of their lives for one reason or another. 

Betty was raised to believe it was her duty to help them find that resolution before they became harmful to the living. 

Laura could, at first, only remember seeing her body hanging from the rafters of a hovel, but talking with her in the hallway that evening, she also remembered sky, brick, and a pig with spots. 

When Betty first went to where Laura’s body was discovered, she saw that the only window in the room looked out to the hovel next door. She could not have seen the sky in her last moments—the _ sky, _not stars. Stars could have been a trick in her eyes as breath left her body. 

And now Dr. Masters confirmed that someone had murdered her before they hung her body to make it look like a suicide.

That hovel was not where she died. She was outdoors when it happened.

Betty left the coroner’s the same way she went in, and as she pulled the door closed from outside, she tugged the collar of her coat higher.

It hadn't grown colder, but later in the night, she wanted to call even less attention to herself.

She walked the streets, tracing her steps back to the scene of Laura’s last known location. 

Betty could only guess that the scene of the crime could not have been far from where they hung her body to be discovered. 

Laura’s recollections, like many spirits before her, tended to come in spurts, sometimes in sequence, backwards, or sometimes in fragmented parts, but they were tied in proximity of time. 

Perhaps she had been killed in an alley along the hovel. It would certainly be much easier to bring a dead body up the back way.

As Betty went to the back of the building, she looked down the narrow, dark alley, with rats skittering in the darkness. There was no throughway to the next street.

She could see the brick along its walls and as she looked up, the sky showed through the rooftops.

Betty touched the brick wall, feeling nothing but the rough material of masonry. 

She closed her eyes, turning slowly and envisioning Laura’s dying seconds. 

Someone strong would have been holding her by the throat, squeezing. Tightening.

Laura’s knees would have buckled beneath her as oxygen left her body. 

Betty knelt on the soiled ground.

Laura’s murderer would have been standing above her, and she could've put up her hands, desperate to push him away. 

Brick and sky. And a pig with spots. 

That last bit was confounding. Livestock was not common in the Southside.

Betty lowered herself to the ground even more, swallowing her gorge at the thought of what refuse had flowed down that street. 

Much to her disgust, she felt the moist cobbled floor against her cheek. And then she opened her eyes. 

She let her eyes see what Laura saw, and there, from her vantage point on the ground, she saw the pub called “The Spotted Pig.”

***************

The Spotted Pig was not, by any means a fashionable pub, but its patrons, though at times boisterous, tended to talk animatedly amongst themselves, never minding anyone who may walk through the door. The tables were filled, but the bar was sparsely populated.

Betty was able to grab a stool and situate herself where she could talk privately with the bartender without attracting too much attention.

She pulled some coins from her pocket and clicked it discreetly, as if counting what she had.

On cue, the bartender approached. "What can I get for you, lad?"

She clicked a 25 cent coin against the counter. "Just a beer, sir."

He paused ever so briefly before continuing with his task. He uncapped the bottle right in front of her. "Will that be all?"

"You have an interesting view from the bar. You've got the pub covered, and some of the street too?"

The bartender shrugged, wiping the counter in front of her while taking the coin she left there. "It keeps me amused."

"I’d imagine, what with the going ons in that alley over there. Prostitutes going in and coming out with fellas who clearly had their way…”

The bartender frowned. "I don't enjoy _ that _ sort of thing, but it occurs."

"Something happens probably every week, doesn’t it? I’ll bet the coppers came by asking if you saw something."

The bartender eyed her suspiciously even when she flashed coin again. He paused, perhaps hesitating to tell her, but he looked at the coin between her fingers again and perhaps decided it was worth it. "I saw the whore go in with one of those gangsters with the dandy jackets. Saw no one come out."

Betty nodded. “Whore was a friend of mine--God rest her soul. I’m surprised she was found in these parts. She had a more--refined clientele. Certainly never a gangster, unless he was a lover."

"This was no lover, by the way he mishandled her.”

Betty gave it a moment’s thought. There was more than one gang in Riverdale, but she knew which one wore the ‘dandy’ jackets: the Ghoulies. She left the 25 cent coin on the counter. “Do you have anything to describe this dandy?” 

The bartender shrugged, taking the coin. "Maybe. Rather handsome fellow, long curly hair. Likes to wear chains around his neck."

She wasn’t sure if that was enough to pick him out of a crowd, but it would have to be enough. At the very least, she already knew a Ghoulie was behind it. She could start poking her nose in the gang and work her way to the perpetrator. 

As she turned to leave, the bartender called her attention back.

"They are a dangerous gang and won’t talk to strangers, lad."

Betty stared at him a moment, trying to decipher whether the bartender knew the extent of her disguise. It would have been easy enough to deduce that she really wasn't a street rat. She had flashed enough coin to remove any doubt, but did the bartender know she was a woman?

"He prefers talking to gentlewomen of certain proclivities," continued the bartender. “They like to gather at The House of the Dead whenever they can—spending their coin on liquor and whores. You might find an opportunity there.” With that, he swept her untouched bottle of beer away.

Betty didn't stay another second. She stepped out of The Spotted Pig and made her way home. 

*******

The plane of the living was not conducive for the dead. Prolonged haunting corrupted ghosts, turning them into things that sought to exist by taking the energies of those alive. That energy was stronger in chaos. A chaotic and stressful home served a ghost that struggled to exist on the living plane. They became malignant when they needed that energy to survive.

Laura had another week or so before she was in any danger of becoming malignant, and once the signs began to show, there was no telling if the descent would be gradual or erupt to a sudden, full-blown corruption. 

It was seldom, though, that spirits followed Betty home. They didn’t, usually, but this one clung to her--so desperate was she for answers. Alice had huffed and fumed when she first noticed Laura appearing in corners and she had warned Betty that if Laura grew corrupt in this house, there would be consequences.

Betty was close to her answers. She could feel it. She just had to keep Laura calm and focused. 

Sometimes Betty wondered if she liked the company of the dead more than she did the living. 

She knew how to be among the living--there was no want of skill there. She presented a proper demeanor, calm and collected. She’d heard them call her detached and cold, even as she tried to be more accommodating and social. 

With the living she wore a facade. It was with the dead that she could be her true self. 

She acknowledged that her true self would seem strange to other people, with her dark silks and laces, her odd herbs and jars, and her "manly" pursuits of fencing, archery, climbing and self-defense. Her brother and mother, who had supported her in these lessons took her skills very seriously. It hadn't been a lark for them, but no one could know. No one should suspect that she had these skills. 

She had friends, but none she considered her confidante. Invitations to social functions were addressed to her mother, who was expected to attend, dragging her daughter with her, whom everyone thought was pretty but unwilling to let anyone get too close.

Her interactions with the dead did nothing to help her interactions with the living.

So her prospects for marriage were dismal—a handful of elderly men, maybe (she’d heard) who couldn’t care less about her oddities because her brother’s estate meant profitable connections. Not that she would want to marry in the first place. She would rather that she didn't.

“Do you think I can be a governess?" Betty asked her mother, once, when thinking about her earning prospects. 

"Absolutely not," said Alice. "You haven't a maternal bone in your body, and no, that ghost boy you once took home doesn't count. He needed neither changing, feeding, nor did you have to worry about his safety. You are completely unsuited to caring for children of the live variety."

That put an end to that idea, but she wondered how well her mother would think of her maternal instinct when they were homeless on the streets. 

As she sat at the dinner table with her mother, their simple fare telling of their thinning funds, Alice put her fork down and said, “The heir has made himself known.”

Betty paused in her chewing. “The heir?”

“To your brother’s fortune. The lawyer sent me a message and said an appointment has been made with him regarding Charle’s estate.”

Betty expected her to say more, when she didn’t, Betty had to stop herself from banging her knife on the table. “Well, did the lawyer tell you who it was?”

“Of course not. It isn’t our business.”

Betty fumed. “Not our business! It is our lives that they transact with!”

“It is how the Daemon Locked run their realms. I don’t make the rules.”

Betty often questioned the wisdom of living amongst the Daemon Locked, especially after Charles died. She hadn’t learned much more about Charle’s banishment from that society since she first learned about it, just that Charles hadn’t agreed with their ways, and that his questioning of it had caused him to be ex-communicated. 

It was his family’s choice then to let him leave Kin society by himself or join him in his exile. 

Alice chose exile, and here they were. 

Betty would have chosen Charles over anyone when he was alive. The question of staying with him in exile or leaving him for the Kin never entered her mind, but with him gone, she had room to consider things that she never considered before. 

She hated the Daemon Locked. 

She hated living in this society that demanded her to act one way and expect her to sit and wait for luck to steer her. She hated that her gender forced her into a helpless existence, that she could not even earn a decent wage because she was born a woman. 

“To the devil with this,” Betty hissed, throwing aside her napkin and leaving her seat. 

Alice sighed. “Where are you going?”

“To the Southside. I have to meet with some gangsters.”

“Betty!”

“I will be fine, mother.”

“I know that, you mule-headed girl. But _ don’t _kill anyone. We have enough problems! If they haul you off to the clink, I will leave you in there to rot, I swear it!”

Betty stifled a grin. Her mother would never. “Those coppers couldn’t catch me if they tried.”

Alice gave a huff. “Be careful, nonetheless. If anyone recognizes you, I don’t think I’d be able to live the scandal down.”

**************

Betty was _ not _going to go as a boy, but she hoped that she looked different enough that she would be unrecognizable, by Southsiders and Northsiders alike. 

As she was, she stole out of the house in a dark hood and cape, intent on concealing not just her face, but her entire appearance. When she wasn’t dressed as a boy, she couldn’t take her bicycle into the Southside like she normally did. In her present disguise, she needed mass transportation.

She couldn’t wait very late to make her way to the Southside, or she would miss the latest wagon out. If she didn’t join the rest of the working class, she would have to take a chaise into Southside and that was a cost she would rather not shoulder if she didn’t have to.

She would have to find a way back later in the night, but if she played her cards right, she might have enough extra coin to pay for a ride.

She made it to the wagon, joining more than a dozen late night workers leaving their northside jobs for their Southside homes. 

Many of the workers with her were shop attendants, chimney sweeps, coachmen, lamplighters, accountants, and a maid or two. Each paid their share of the ride—much lower than a chaise, and let their transport take them.

Betty kept her eyes low and her hands hidden. Her hood and cape were of old material, making her nondescript in the crowd. The last stop was a long walk to the House of the Dead, but Betty didn’t mind that in the least. The time would serve her, since she needed the Ghoulies to be inebriated, and the later it was, the more liquor they would have consumed. 

She heard the music and rancour coming from the House of the Dead several streets away. Live music filtered out into the busy streets, mixing with the shouts and cheers of the establishment’s patrons. Those who stumbled out of its doors were already drunk, a whore dragging them out. 

As Betty drew close, she kept her hood on, hoping she could observe the crowd undisturbed for a bit. She managed to walk through the doors without calling attention to herself.

She made her way up the stairs, looking down on the active crowd. She found a group of whores leaning against the railings and looking down at their prospects. Betty tried to be among them without getting in the way of their view. They spoke bawdily of the patrons down below, some of whom were already partnered and dancing with other women. 

She heard the two prostitutes beside her talking. “Would you look at Malachai? Easy coin. Don’t mind riding that for a discount!” 

The women laughed loudly and Betty trained her gaze to where they were looking. She immediately knew who they were talking about. 

Malachai was a handsome fellow, his wild curly hair framing his face. The thin mustache over his lip made him look dashing, and the white blouse under his vest was mostly unbuttoned, showing off a finely toned chest. 

But it wasn’t his musculature that Betty was focusing on, it was his jewelry. He wore several chains around his neck, that was true, but she saw the rings on his fingers--multiple rings. 

_ The marks approximately line up with the grip of hands, and those dark spots--those are rings... _

Betty was certain this was her murderer, but she needed to know why. Was he Laura’s lover, jealous of her clientele and finally enraged enough to kill her?

But no. The bartender at the Spotted Pig told her Malachai was no lover--not by his observations. And the deliberate way Laura was brought into that alley, only to hang her body up in the hovel with a rope--it had been planned. 

_ He was hired. _

Betty popped open the small vial of perfume in her pocket and began applying its contents to herself, then she made her way down to where Malachai was. Slowly, she unraveled her cape and hood. 

The effect was immediate. Gazes began to turn her way and her perfume wafted into their nostrils, causing some of them to inhale like bloodhounds. 

Her hair was braided to one side, boldly draped over her shoulder to frame her generously showing decolletage. She had never worn her corset tighter or her collar so low, and as she sucked in her breath, all eyes fell on her bosom.

Her dress was of better quality than any of the other whores in the room, but she most certainly removed all manner of refinement and class it once had. This was the version of the dress that her mother would have locked her in the wine cellar for. 

Malachi’s attention was caught, and he pushed through his crowd of subjects, observing her. 

Betty wasn’t going to wait at all. She locked eyes with him and curled her finger to beckon him. 

His toothy grin split his face in half and he swooped in, his arm looping around her waist and immediately sweeping her into the sound of the music. 

“What beauty is this?” Malachai said in her ear, his feet barely keeping step. He smelled like liquor and by the way he moved, she could tell he was already inebriated. “I am almost inclined to think you don’t belong here.”

“I am exactly where I belong,” Betty replied in a breathy voice, trailing her finger along the skin of his open chest. 

Malachai liked that, dancing her around even more. He engaged her in silly conversation and she obliged, flattering him and letting his lips touch her skin. 

She snatched a goblet of wine from one of the servers, and with a quick sleight of hand laced it with a large helping of a compound she found in her brother’s books--truth elixirs were apparently part of the Kin’s tool kit. 

Betty gave Malachai the wine and he didn’t even think twice about consuming it. He finished the wine in one long gulp, and as soon as his eyes began to droop, she whispered in his ear, “Are you alright?”

Malachai nodded slowly, smiling. “I feel so good--what’s your name again?”

“Dorothy.”

“Dorothy,” he drawled against her shoulder. “I want to bury myself between your thighs, Dorothy.”

Betty cringed at the words, but this was the state she needed him to be in, exactly. “Do you have coin, good sir?”

Malachai produced a rather handsome pouch and Betty snatched it right out of his hand. “Take me to a bedroom, Malachai.”

He dragged her off the floor by her wrist and she grit her teeth at the roughness of him. His grip was painful and strong, but she wasn’t concerned. She knew she was stronger. 

He brought her up the stairs and Betty could feel the eyes of many following them. As they passed the whores, she heard the words “cunt” and “bitch” hissed in her direction.

Malachai led her up another set of stairs and it grew quieter as they ascended. 

There was only one door at the top of landing and he kicked it open. 

Betty was assaulted by the sight of a naked man and woman engaging in carnal acts. The woman screamed, scrambling for cover as the man cursed.

“Get out,” Malachai ordered them, sluggishly picking up the gown at his feet and throwing it at the woman who barely caught it in her arms. 

“But--” the man sputtered, his bits fully exposed. 

Betty steeled her expression. This was not supposed to shock her and she held her poise, but she was screaming within. 

Malachai gestured wildly to the door. _ “Out _or I’ll slit your throat, Basher!” He produced a knife, which alarmed Betty to a great degree.

Malachai clearly had no compunction to kill.

“Y-Yes, boss!” Basher stammered, scrambling to pick up his clothes and dragging the woman with him. They hurried out and slammed the door as they left. 

Malachai turned to her, still brandishing the knife. His grip on her wrist was like iron, and when he pressed the blade to her throat, she thought she had made a grave mistake. 

She swallowed, ready to jump into action, but then he turned her, slipping off her hood and cape. He began, it seemed, to slice through the strings of her gown, pushing the sleeves of her dress lower. Her shoulders were exposed, but her corset kept most of her dress in place. He was clumsy with his hands, cursing as he became increasingly unsuccessful at his operation.

She breathed to calm herself, knowing that the serum was taking effect. “Do you like using your hands, Malachai?”

He laughed, dropping his knife as it slipped clumsily from his grip. “On the likes of you… I do…”

She turned around to look at him and saw him wavering on his feet. He looked at her ravenously, grinning and leaning over, perhaps to press his lips to her skin. 

She pushed him back gently and slowly began to back him onto the bed. 

“Your coin pouch is heavy,” she remarked as he fell back on the mattress. “It appears business is flourishing.”

Malachai nodded. The truth serum was working. “Some politician... paid me to rid him of his whore. Needy cunt.” He laughed.

“Politician?”

“You talk too much, Dorothy.” His eyes began to close and Betty was afraid she had given him too much. She jumped onto the bed to straddle him, slapping his face to keep him awake. “Which politician, Malachai? Do you have a name?” 

“Dooley…” he groaned. “Now please, Dorothy… take off your clothes.”

Betty sat back, aghast at this revelation. The only politician she knew named Dooley was the governor. This was a great scandal if she could get proof of Malachai’s words. 

There was a commotion beyond the door and it wasn’t as cheerful as it was, earlier in the night. 

Betty needed a way out of this building without having to go through that door. Her eyes fell upon the window behind her, but just as she was about to calculate the height of the third floor window from the street, the door burst open, and Betty screamed, diving into her skirts for her knife. 

The intruder slammed the door behind him and took out what looked like a steel enforced cane. He lodged it against the door and pushed a lever on the cane, which caused steam to hiss out of it and extend, effectively barring the door. 

He was a well-dressed man, with top hat, a three piece suit, and leather gloves. When he turned to face her, she saw the startlingly patterned colors of his vest--a contrast to what might have been a well-tailored, but predictable suit. 

His blue eyes fell upon her with growing shock and he immediately took off his coat, throwing it over her bare shoulders. “Betty, we have to go!”

It was the blue of his eyes that struck her first. They were intense and penetrating. His face remained as beautiful as she remembered it, but it was more refined by maturity. His shoulders were broader, but not by much—he was always more lean than muscular and it appears that hadn’t changed in the least. 

But it was the way her heart beat for him that she remembered most, and she could match it rhythm for rhythm from memory. 

_ “Jughead?” _ And as she finally said his name, the _ other _memories came rushing back. The last one, in particular, grew vivid in her mind’s eye, when he left her on the platform heartbroken and alone. Her anger and mortification pushed her to action. She scrambled off the bed and shoved his coat off, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor. “What are you doing here?” 

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, his eyes distractedly going to the increasing commotion outside the door. “You are in a world of trouble, Betty.”

She frowned, inexplicably annoyed by his words. She hastily grabbed her cape and whipped it back on. “You are impeding my investigation! And did you cause that rabble downstairs? Everything was fine when I left that crowd.”

He picked his coat off the floor and only then did she notice how laden his body was with straps and holstered weapons. His forearms, in particular, seemed heavy with gear. Before she could think anymore on the strangeness of his wardrobe, he proceeded to put his coat back on, ignoring Malachai’s groans of frustration for Dorothy. “That _ crowd _was getting restless and suspicious. Prompted by jealousy, no doubt, that the prettiest lady in the room wanted the attentions of no one but their leader.”

She glared at him, watching him aim his arm at the iron carvings of the bed. Something shot out of his sleeve, right through the railing. Barbs expanded from its steel body with a puff of steam, grappling with the iron and securing it.

She’d never seen such a thing before. 

Jughead pulled his arm back and she saw the rope connecting the hook with his arm. “They were grumbling that you were a plant by the pawnsmith, Sweet Pea--they’ve never seen you before. Of course they’d be suspicious.” He made his way to the window, stepping on the chair, then the desk beside it. With his foot on the sill, he extended an arm towards her. “Come along. We haven’t got much time.”

A loud bang rocked the door and Betty hastened towards him, climbing the steps just as he had, and once she had her own foot on the sill, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

She looked over the window, saw how high it was, and cast Jughead an anxious look. Could the rope even hold them both? It seemed so thin and flimsy. The crowd couldn’t possibly hurt her the way they would hurt him. Maybe he should escape by himself. She could handle herself in dangerous situations. She was trained and ready, and this wasn’t the first time she’d had to get away from an angry crowd. “Perhaps you should go on your own. This rope--”

“I’m not leaving you here by yourself,” he told her, softly.

His words and the way he said it, it brought back memories. When all those years ago, she was scared and anxious on Sabrina’s chair and he told her the same thing. And then there was that look of his that made her think she was the only one who mattered. She surrendered now like she did then. 

“Now hang on,” he added, his tone even gentler.

She took off his hat, watching the rich, black curls of his hair tumble over his brow. She gripped the hat securely in her hand as she tightened her arms around him. 

He smirked, and together, they jumped off the ledge. 

***************

They didn’t run when they got to the street. 

Jughead had simply dislodged the rope from his wrist and they walked smoothly back into the throng of people on the sidewalk as if they weren’t running away from a hoard of drunk gangsters three floors above the street. She gave him back his hat and he tucked it back onto his head as casually as anyone else. 

Under cover of her cloak, she managed to pull what remained of the laces of dress together, keeping it in place.

Their brisk but silent walk gave her the time she needed to collect her thoughts and recall the hurt feelings his nonresponsiveness to her confession had speared through her. Suddenly, her humiliation felt like it happened yesterday instead of six years ago.

How dare Jughead come swooping in after all this time, acting like she needed saving, when she very well could have climbed down that wall? She’s scaled much more difficult rock faces than that. And really, she could have fought her way through that entire gang of thugs. Close quarter combat was something Charles had trained her in.

Jughead knew all this. 

“I didn’t need to be saved!” she hissed at him over her shoulder. “Everything was going as expected!”

The arch of Jughead’s eyebrow was one she remembered well. “Except those drunks were incapable of logic and were champing at the bit for a fight—any fight.”

She rounded on him, furious. “Oh, is that what you think? That I am unable to handle it on my own?”

To his credit, his face reddened visibly. “That is not what I said, but I could not stand by and let you deal with trouble by yourself when I am clearly available to lend a hand.”

She huffed loudly at his words, turning to walk away from him. “Oh, clearly.” 

She was unsure as of yet why she was so vexed with him. _ Yes, _he hadn’t said the words back all those years ago, and the humiliation felt raw, but one could argue that wasn’t his fault. At the moment, the only thing fueling her anger was his treatment of her--the familiar way he had treated her like a child, in spite of the fact that the situation he had extracted her from had been very adult. 

There were many things she wanted to say, but she bit her lip and instead focused on how she was going to get home. She dug into her pockets and found the pouch Malachai gave her. She opened it and checked its contents. There was coin, but half of it were pebbles. She grumbled a string of profanities. 

“Well, that mouth certainly learned a thing or two,” Jughead grumbled back. 

She shot him a glare. The audacity of him chastising her for her language pushed her irritation to boiling. “From the best, actually. Master Jones? You know him?”

He laughed, looking over his shoulder onto the street. She could see his breath in the cold night air against the dim light of the moon. “How were you planning on getting home, Betty?”

For a moment, she considered not telling him, but she was a practical woman. She had to be. “Catch a shared chaise at the edge of town--expensive but more manageable when split with another. Pay enough to get me across the bridge and get close enough to walk the rest of the way. Done it before.”

He nodded and she appreciated how he didn’t seem to find her plan amusing. “I have a carriage.” 

As if on cue, the carriage rolled onto the curb behind him. Everything about it was black, from the horses that pulled its sturdy car and wheels. Even the coachman’s dress was black and Betty stared at this vision, wondering if it was real or if she was hallucinating. The last time she spoke with Jughead Jones, he was wearing hand-me-downs from Charles. Now everything he owned was new and sleek. She wasn’t surprised that he had become successful in whatever trade he was in, but she never pegged him for being ostentatious in his tastes. 

“It is company transport,” he explained, as if hearing her thoughts. “The organization I work for provides it to all its employees and I have no choice in how it looks.” He pulled the carriage door open for her and held out his hand. 

She accepted his explanation and climbed in without taking his hand. She heard him sigh as she settled in the richly upholstered seating. 

Jughead settled across from her, securing the carriage door and rapping a fist against the ceiling. The carriage moved at the signal. 

He took off his hat, ruffling his fingers through his dark hair as he set the hat aside. 

She watched him and she didn’t care if he saw her doing it. He seemed to let her take him in, with his blue eyes staring back at her without the slightest hint of discomfort. 

His eyes trailed to her wrists and only then did she realize how raw they were from Malachai’s rough handling. He appeared to be reaching for them and she tucked her wrists into her cape. 

“Betty.”

“Don’t. Just don’t. There are six years between us where you could’ve cared,” she said. “I know Charles said we weren’t allowed to contact you and that he had forbidden you to contact us, but I still expected--I don’t know what I expected, Jughead, but not the complete and utter silence. As if you--as if _ we _didn’t exist.”

He sighed but didn’t argue and she felt less weighted having expressed her feelings, finally. 

“How long have you been following me?” Betty asked in a clipped tone. 

“Long enough.”

She scowled. That wasn’t an answer. “Why didn’t you make yourself known before you barged in on my investigation?”

He cocked a smile, then. “Curiosity. I wanted to see what you were up to.”

The thought that he had watched her flirt and seduce made her neck and face grow hot, like lava. At the same time, if he had seen _ all that _ and he _ let her, _then he clearly respected her space--up until he intervened in the bedroom. “And what did you think I was up to?”

“Doing what Charles taught us,” he replied, in a more subdued tone. “Finding answers for the restless dead.”

He hadn’t forgotten and it was important enough that she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” she managed to say, “but Charles passed away several months ago.”

The anguish in his eyes was clear, the blues shimmering liquid for a heartbeat before he blinked and gave a quick sniff. “I just heard, Betty. I am--” He sighed. “Devastated.”

She had expected him to say he was sorry, but she realized that “sorry” was for others. Sorry was for the neighbors who came to give their condolences. Sorry was for Charles’s business associates who paid them the obligatory visit. Sorry was for the coroner and the priest and all those who managed the funeral. 

Sorry was not for Jughead. Jughead was family, and she remembered _ that, _deeply. She realized that while she’s had a few months to come to terms with the tragedy, the tragedy was new for him. 

She forgot her anger and her hurt. She wanted only to comfort him. On impulse, she took his hands in hers and he did not hesitate to cling to them. “Jughead. There was no way to tell you sooner. Charles always told me--we mustn’t try to reach out to you for your own good. I was hoping Charles was communicating with you in some secret way, but I couldn’t find anything, how did you--”

He swiped his sleeve across his eyes and gestured for her to still her words. He reached into his coat pocket and from it, he produced a watch, identical to the one that Charles gave her. It wasn’t working and the key needed to be turned. He did, and immediately, she felt the vibration in her pocket. She dug into her gown for the watch, and even with the hinged metal cover, she could tell that its face appeared to be glowing green. She pressed the clasp and the cover swung open. The gears turned and turned and turned. Only after she pressed the clasp again did the glow stop and the gears grind to a halt. 

She ran her finger along the edge of the timepiece, appreciating the thought that Charles put into the device. He had chosen a plain design, knowing that if it was too pretty, she might sell it--he knew how practical she was. 

That, along with the note, was proof that Charles had a plan for them after all. “When I wound the watch…”

Jughead nodded. “I knew. Charles gave me my half of the timepiece that night I told you I had to leave. He told me that should the watch ever work, it meant he was dead and that you needed me. I prayed every day that it never would.”

Betty couldn’t help her tears then. Charles was always taking care of her, and whenever he did, Jughead was right at his heels. 

It made her smile amidst her tears. “Well, then. Unless you know who this mystery blood relative that Charles left his estate to is, the only help you can give me is to spirit me away to a foreign land, because otherwise, mother will marry me off to some stranger for our financial survival.”

“Betty.” He reached into his pocket and used his handkerchief to dry her tears. “Are you still on about being forced to marry?”

“It became a reality when Charles died. It is what keeps me up at night.”

“Well, you needn’t let it any longer.” He squeezed her hands in his. “I am the blood relative Charles left his estate to. I have the keys to his vault and you aren’t marrying some _ stranger _ under my watch.”

She stared at him in shock, her grief momentarily swept away at this revelation. “But that’s--did you forge papers to--”

He pushed some hair off her face and the touch surprised her into silence. “It isn’t a lie, Betty. My father was his father. Charles is--was my half brother.”


	3. Heir to the Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a moment to send love to [@aam-loves](https://aam-loves.tumblr.com/post/189098961026/how-is-it-possible-to-write-something) on tumblr for this [amazing piece of art](https://aam-loves.tumblr.com/post/189098961026/how-is-it-possible-to-write-something) she created, inspired by this story. It is truly wonderful, capturing the mood and look of the Daemon Bound universe.

It was far too late for any self-respecting lady to be out of bed, as it was, but for a strange carriage to come rolling through the cobbled ground leading up to the Cooper home, a home bereft of a master the past few months, this was either a scandal or a development. 

Betty often told herself that she shouldn’t worry herself over the preoccupations of the Daemon Locked, but because she walked among them, lived in their laws, existed in their society, she was compelled to care, especially when her public behavior determined whether she would have to put up with a tolerably older man or a doddering septuagenarian for a prospective husband.

As she stared at Jughead Jones, who now claims to be the heir to Charles’s fortune, she wondered if it also meant she would be free of those concerns. 

Jughead had certainly declared that she would not have to marry anyone she didn’t love--not if he could help it, and that was incredibly reassuring, but the Daemon Locked did tend to be creative about their spite against headstrong women. It offended their sensibilities when someone dared to defy the seemingly made-up societal rules that governed them, therefore, that someone should be shunned. 

There were other things to think about, besides. Like the fact that Jughead confirmed that he was, in fact, related to Charles by blood, that they were half-brothers by virtue of Forsythe Pendleton Jones, senior. 

“My mother had a child with your father,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Charles was not my father’s son.”

Jughead said nothing. She supposed the facts were indisputable. 

She bit her lip, feeling a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach. Her feelings for Jughead in the past were rushing to the forefront of her mind in parallel to this familial conundrum, and she began to wonder, in horror, if her romantic feelings for him had been forbidden by the laws of nature. “So are we--are you my--”

“No,” Jughead interjected. Perhaps her thoughts were so clearly drawn in her eyes that he instantly knew what she was thinking. “We are not related at all, Betty. You were Charles’s sister and that was it. We aren’t even cousins, you and I. Though perhaps in our present situation, we should perpetuate that old lie. It will explain why I permit you and your mother to stay. Your mother’s reputation will fare better for it. I don’t think even Mrs. Cooper’s mettle would prove impenetrable in the face of a scandal such as that.”

He didn’t seem to be joking. 

His eyes lowered to their hands, and she saw that his lashes were damp with tears. He wiped them away with his sleeve. Hardly refined, but a gesture so raw and familiar to a time when his clothes were not so tailored and when the bones of his face seemed softer. 

“I sent letters, you know,” Jughead said, looking up to meet her gaze. “Dozens of them--to you. And to Charles, but mostly to you. And they all came back unmarked. As if I never dropped them off at the post. And when I tried to come back, to physically come back, I could never seem to get to the Elm. There was a force stronger than I that prevented me from finding my way.”

The Elm was the expanse of forest surrounding Charles’s estate and the handful of houses neighboring theirs. It was a distinct area, with manicured pathways and picturesque tree arches, where carriages rolled beneath the shade of leaves and ladies with their parasols could safely walk from one place to another. There were small shops and businesses throughout the area as well, often meant to service the Elm houses as well as other nearby communities. 

That Jughead couldn’t even set foot in the Elm then--but was able to do so now, told them that Charles had warded the area well enough that only his death was powerful enough to sever it. 

It must have been hurtful, when Jughead first realized that Charles had taken these measures to prevent him from coming back. But clearly it was the only way. That Jughead had tried to visit at all, in spite of Charles’s dire warnings of being discovered fraternizing with the Forsaken, was proof enough that it needed to be done. 

Betty wished Charles had told her that he’d done this, and yet she knew why he kept it secret. Because if she didn’t think Jughead had ceased all contact with them deliberately, she might have taken that train to the city and sought him out. 

He had shut them off from each other completely because he knew how stubborn both of them would be. 

_ Oh, Charles. _

“Charles always said that we would be a blight to you and your new life,” she explained. She could not apologize for what Charles did. “He warned me that communication between any of us could ruin you if the Imperium discovered it.”

Charles told her that the only way she could ever see Jughead again was at the moment of Charles’s death, because then the ban on the Forsaken would be lifted from their family.

“I did miss you,” Jughead admitted. “I missed all of you--even Mrs. Cooper, though I doubt she missed me in the least.”

Betty did not dispute his claim and when they met eyes, they chuckled in unison, knowing that Alice’s affection was just as hard a burden to bear as her complete apathy. 

At that moment, with his warm, strong hand holding hers, Betty was reminded of her romantic declarations to Jughead on the train platform anew, and she felt mortified once again.

Carefully, she extracted her hand from his, trying not to seem so obvious, but she failed and he was visibly embarrassed, which made it ten times worse. 

“I apologize,” he mumbled. “I forget myself.”

She wished to melt through the floor. She did not want to hear him explain what that meant--did he forget that she was no longer a child? Did he forget that she was old enough to be considered a spinster? How could he?

She was so desperate to push back her humiliation that she clung to the other uncomfortable topic. “So quite plainly, Charles was a lovechild, wasn’t he? Did your father and my mother love one another?”

She could see his neck and cheeks turn visibly red. Clearly her tactic worked. 

“That is not for me to say, Betty.” He did not deny it, nor did he confirm. It told Betty nothing of her mother and his father’s history, or the circumstances of Charles’s begetting.

She sighed, shaking her head--at her own audacity, perhaps. She was about to make it even more outrageous. “And to think she practically suggested that I wear a chastity belt going into the Southside at night. Twasn’t my legs that needed shutting, was it?”

Jughead pursed his lips. “I take it you’ve been helping Southside spirits more frequently.”

She paused, realizing that he was attributing her crass language to her otherworldly associations, and he wouldn’t be completely wrong. “I apologize. That was beastly of me. I _ have _ been keeping the company of a prostitute. Dead, of course. You should know, doing what we do, that our powers help us empathize with their plight by taking on some of their thoughts.”

His eyebrow arched, then, and he nodded, leaning back against the corner of his seat and draping his arm against the window sill. He looked over his shoulder to watch the road rolling by outside. “Yes, so don’t apologize. Then again, your mother also had a natural talent for pulling your levers.”

The corner of his lip was lifting, and she realized by the tension around his mouth that he hadn’t been chastising her in the first place. All this was amusing him. 

She remembered that he used to look exactly the same way when she got in trouble with Alice in the past, and when she rebelled, he would do nothing to dissuade her, because she supposed it was far more entertaining to watch her and Alice argue over what was and wasn’t expected of a “lady”. 

His expression reminded her yet again of how he had perceived her as a child, and if he thought the same way, still, in spite of the spectacle she made of herself at the House of the Dead, then there was no hope for her. 

“Do you think mother will be shocked?” Betty asked. “About you inheriting Charles’s estate?”

He seemed thoughtful, his thumb between his teeth. “No. Your mother knew who I was. She tolerated me, at first because Charles demanded it, and then later when she got used to me. I believe she developed a more positive perception of me when it became clear that my presence delayed your involvement in field work.”

Betty forestalled the harsh words poised at her lips by taking a long breath. She despised the idea that Jughead had to leave for Charles to allow her on the field. “And what did you think of that? Did you agree with this arrangement?”

He laughed softly. “I was young and thought I knew everything, Betty. I thought I was protecting you--Charles’s younger sister; the most important person in his life, and his approval meant everything to me. You understand that, don’t you?”

She did. In her bones. 

“But I always knew you would be good at it--at _ this. _You were fearless, Betty, and no matter how young you were, I always admired that about you.”

Her heart fluttered lightly in her chest. “You did? Y-You didn’t think that bothersome and inappropriate?”

“Not in the faintest. I even think, perhaps, that you did your job _ too well _tonight.”

His words meant the world to her and she worked hard to stifle a grin of triumph, until she remembered that she had played a prostitute this evening, and there were possibly more intriguing thoughts she could explore with regard to his statement, but the carriage came to a stop, and Jughead was swinging the door open to step out. 

His hand reached back into the cab, offering it to her like a gentleman to a lady. 

Unable to resist, she took it as she alighted the carriage. 

*******************

Alice was furious at Betty’s appearance--with her low cut collar, tight corset, and superfluous bustle, and it did not require mental acrobatics to suss out the format of Betty’s mission, especially when a prostitute’s spirit was roaming their home. 

Her mother’s lips were pursed so hard at the state of her daughter’s dress that all she did for several seconds upon arriving at the parlor was to breathe and bite the inside of her cheeks while she transferred her gaze between Betty and Jughead. 

Jughead bowed graciously in greeting, waiting patiently for Alice to gather her wits. 

Finally, she said, “Forsythe. Took you long enough to get here.”

He nodded, unfazed by her straightforward greeting. “I had to make arrangements. Get away without my mother asking too many questions.”

Alice scoffed, seating herself as she gestured to the teapot. Dutifully, Betty began to pour some for her in a cup. “I saw from the window that you have a Guild carriage--I imagine that would have broadcast your activities to the Guild, at least. Doesn’t seem to me like you wanted this to be too much of a secret.”

_ “Mother.” _As much as Jughead’s arrival had caused Betty some form of chaos, she didn’t want Alice to drive him away. She wanted him to stay. She wanted to tell him, still, that she was so happy to see him back, for they hadn’t had that conversation yet amidst the more pressing concerns.

But Jughead didn’t seem put off. He looked like he was stifling a grin, his eyes rolling slightly at Alice’s interrogation. “The Guild assigned me here to work—at least that’s what they think they did. My trusted coachman and I traveled here by train on assignment. The carriage came from a nearby outpost, waiting for us at the station, which is why I had to do my job before coming here.”

“How convenient.” Alice sipped her tea. 

“Well, when one’s father is your assigned Guardian at the Guild, he can… make certain arrangements.”

“Ah.” Alice’s expression betrayed nothing as she put her cup down. “Does he know about Charles’s passing?”

“He does.”

Betty’s fist tightened and her nails dug grooves into her palms. She recalled how in the past, mention of Jughead’s relationship with his father always made him sullen and sad. It made Jughead retreat into himself--his melancholy could last for hours or days. She wished she could tell her mother to speak of things other than that, but she would not be deterred.

The set of Alice’s jaw hardened. “I know he and Charles weren’t close—he didn’t know about Charles until years after he was born--until after Hal was lost at sea, but one would think that he could at least accompany you in your grief. He owes you that much.”

Betty shot Alice a daggered look. “That isn’t our place, mother.”

“Father wanted to come,” Jughead said without hesitation. “But we could not afford anyone thinking that this was anything more than Peace Dealer business.”

“And your coachman? Won’t he tell?”

Jughead shook his head. “Peace Dealers choose their coachmen. Marmaduke won’t tell.” He did not elaborate further. “I have a few days yet before I am expected back in the city, which gives us a bit of time to determine how we want to proceed from here.”

Betty’s jaw dropped. The handing over an entire estate could not possibly be so easy, and even if it were, there were many other things to talk about--six years worth, in fact. “A few days? We couldn’t possibly settle _ everything _ in a _ few days.” _

The breadth of decisions to tackle was overwhelming. What was to become of Charles’s business holdings? Would Jughead take it up or would he sell Charles’s shares? What of the management of the house? And what of her? Was she to carry on as before, being who she was expected to be in the day and doing her duties as Kin by night? 

There were so many questions. It couldn’t all possibly be determined in a few days time.

And besides that, even if their past was not romantic, she and Jughead were bosom friends, practically family. Did that not count for more than a few days before he left again?

“I would have to leave,” Jughead said. “But I plan on returning as soon as possible. You are right, Betty. There are far too many things to settle it all in a few days. But now that I can return, I intend to make full use of that liberty. You and I have a lot to talk about, as well.” He cast her a meaningful look and it warmed her, to have him acknowledge that their friendship still existed. 

“Well,” Alice said after a moment’s quiet. “It is good to see that the years have made you steadier, Forsythe. What are you now, twenty and four?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Married? Engaged?”

Jughead frowned. “Not in the slightest.”

Betty bit back the joy this confirmation brought her. 

Alice made a sound of disgust. “Ugh. How inconvenient. As the sole heir to Charles’s estate, you will now have to manage the constant barrage of matronly matchmakers that news of your arrival would no doubt encourage. The Daemon Locked have nothing but _ this _to preoccupy them, it seems. You ought to see Betty’s card--an endless pile of eligible middle-aged men and widowers, half of which I have no doubt are unfit to marry.”

Betty wanted to tell Alice how little resistance she’d shown to such ongoings, in spite of her criticism on the quality of Betty’s prospects, but Jughead was looking visibly agitated by this topic.

“There will be an indefinite moratorium on all topics regarding future matrimony,” he said. “Eligible men or otherwise.”

Alice gave a harsh laugh. “It’s all well and good for a man to renounce marriage, but spinsterhood was and always will be harsher on women. Soon enough, Betty’s reputation will go from ‘eccentric’ to downright intolerable--all before they darken the door of this parlor. And as nice and comfortable as it is for you to cater to Betty’s whims, you aren’t immortal yourself. If _ you _ die, she will be too old for anyone to want her and she will be cast into poverty, or better yet, you will marry and your _ wife _will want to cast her out.”

Betty could feel her face growing lava hot and her temper got the better of her. She stood, her fists tight on her side. “With all your dire predictions, I wonder where the reputation of a pregnant and unmarried woman fits. You ought to know. Perhaps my aged state does not make me unmarriageable enough! Let me test the boundaries.”

“Oh, please. With whom? But then again, there is no shortage of dark and dangerous men in the Southside--I should know. The pawn smith, maybe? Sweet Pea, I believe they call him. If his fondness for your gowns is any indication, he will do nicely for your experiment.”

“Gentlewomen!” Jughead cried, stepping between them. 

It was his warm hand on Betty’s shoulder that caught her. Skin on skin, it was a wholly unfamiliar sensation. Perhaps he had forgotten that she was immodestly dressed.

“The night grows late,” he said in a gentler tone. “We are all of us exhausted and we can reconvene in the morning--at breakfast, if you’ll have me, Mrs. Cooper.”

By the loosening of Alice’s shoulders, her acquiescence was clear, but her eyebrow arched in mild surprise. “Have you? Forsythe Pendleton Jones III, you are the master of this house now. Not only do I expect you to sit at the head of the breakfast table, I had assumed that you would be taking Charles’s room tonight." 

Jughead appeared startled, confounded by this reality than anything else.

Perhaps that was all Alice wanted--to have the last word, because when Jughead appeared to have lost all manner of speech, she simply nodded and said, “I shall see you tomorrow, Master Jones.”

And she left, in the dramatic fashion that Alice was so good at. 

For all that, Betty was not amused. She stood fuming at her mother’s insinuations, even if she herself had provoked them, and no amount of Jughead’s touch could completely soothe her outrage. “She is singular and unbearable!” 

Jughead finally tore his gaze from the door and perhaps realizing that he still had his hand on her, let his hand drop, though he did it gently, entreating her to sit back down by gesturing to the chaise lounger. 

She did, breathing through her anger. When he sat on the ottoman beside it, right by her knee, and looked up at her face with growing amusement, she felt her anger wane. She was reminded of those summers in the garden, when they spoke of silly things as he lounged on the grass at her feet. 

“I prefer my old room, if you don’t mind,” Jughead finally said. “I could not bear to be in Charles’s room right now. I would be too sad to get any sleep.”

She longed to run her hands through his hair. He was so close, but she wasn’t an eleven year old girl anymore. She was nineteen, a woman, and he was a grown man. Such intimacies belonged to lovers.

“You don’t have to do anything mother says,” she said, softly. They were close enough that she no longer had to raise her voice. “I am sorry you had to witness that.”

“Don’t be. It was riveting.”

She laughed and she was glad to see him smiling, too. 

“And just to remove all uncertainty,” he added. “I would never marry anyone who would want to cast you out. I’d sooner cast _ them _out. Which means, of course, that I would expect you to protect me in the same fashion, were our situations reversed.” 

It was comforting to think that he envisioned them looking out for one another to the bitter end of a wedding aisle. 

“So much for marital bliss. But I would venture to guess that neither of us care for that particular subject matter. I’d rather know what you intend to do.” She gestured widely. “About all of this.”

He sighed, leaning his elbow against the chaise’s backrest. “First, I must cancel my accommodations at the Four Seasons.”

Betty scoffed. “Why did you even think to stay there?”

“I wasn’t yet sure if the wards would let me. Charles wasn’t clear on the particulars when he gave me the watch, but I understand why he kept the wards secret from me. By the time I realized it, it was already too late to do anything. You believe me, don’t you? That I tried to communicate with you after I moved to the city?”

“I do. And what of your life there? Do you like it?”

He nodded, sheepishly. “All things considered, yes. My mother did not lie about our house, she did not lie about having a better life. I spent most of my days at Stonewall Prep, an academy for aspiring Peace Dealers, my father was employed by the Guild, in which he eventually rose in the ranks, and my sister, Jellybean--she is an inventor. I would like for you to meet her one day.”

She was happy that he led such a purposeful life, that leaving Riverdale had meant that he left the hardships of his old life behind. It was clear, in his dress and manners that this better life suited him, that he had earned everything Charles had wanted for him.

“I am certain that Charles would have been very proud of you.”

His grateful smile warmed her heart. “I never forgot what he taught me. I was the best in my class because of his tutelage. Charles should have been a professor. An instructor. He was better than anyone I had at the academy.”

Betty believed it. Everything she knew, she learned from Charles. Peace Dealing, for her, was a calling, but Charles had told her that in Kin society, it was the foundation of their existence. The Kin came to being for the very purpose of helping lost souls, bridging the often perilous path between the realm of the living and dead. 

It was the Peace Dealers who were at the frontlines of the everlasting war between shadow and light, spelling the difference between maintaining the veil that held back the malignant spirits, the chaotic elementals, Daemon Wraiths, and the gates of Hades--these very forces that sought to tear it down. 

Charles explained to her how Peace Dealers were held in high esteem in Kin society and she could not think of anyone more deserving of this respect than Jughead.

She understood how that meant he wasn’t about to give up his life in the city to manage Charles’s estate, where Charles’s Daemon Locked partners were likely to look down on him for his past, or his suspect relations to the Coopers. 

Betty was a pragmatist, in spite of her passionate convictions about the limitations being imposed on her gender. She expected that Jughead would sell Charles’s shares. Whether he would take that money and invest it somewhere else for the upkeep of Charles’s home and the family he left behind, Betty would have to trust Jughead’s judgement, but it was imperative that she not be a burden to him. 

It would have to be one of their many conversations in the coming weeks, but for now, she was willing to take the day-by-day approach, especially with the limited time they have. 

“What is on tomorrow’s agenda?” she asked.

There was a moment that his eyes seemed to look to a more distant future, but when he lowered his gaze to his hands, he seemed resigned to the more immediate concerns, and perhaps he was measuring how much he could carry at the moment. “First order of business is to meet with the attorney--get this estate business settled, then over to the bankers, where I should assume rights to Charles’s vault, and I suppose your mother would want to update me on the management of the house.”

Judging by his expression, administrative matters in general ranked low on his list of favorite things. As avid a learner as he was--so eager and willing to sit down with a book and discover new things--it was always true that he was a man of action. He would sooner jump out of a third-story window than have meetings with attorneys, bankers, and Alice Cooper.

Still, there was something about his taking responsibility for these more mundane tasks that brought a new dimension to him--a reminder that he was more grown up than she realized, and that she liked it. Immensely. 

“And then,” his shoulders straightened. “And then there’s the matter of your nightly adventures.”

She didn’t think he would bring up so soon, but she supposed now was as good a time as any to speak of it. “What of it? It isn’t of an urgent matter. As of yet, I am well-funded in undertaking it, so long as I mind my spending, which I have been very efficient at since Charles passed. I would eventually want to have this conversation--”

His hands pressed over hers. “I must ask you to stay home for the time being.”

“What?” This was beyond unexpected. “Stay home? You mean _ not _go out and perform my sworn duty as a--”

“The wards Charles placed around you began to unravel the moment he died, but perhaps it held on for as long as it could, for otherwise, I’m not sure you would have survived these last few months without them--”

“I _ beg _your pardon?” She rose to her feet, swiping her hands away from his. “I survived by my own wits and everything Charles taught me. You have no right to tell me what to do!”

“That isn’t--that isn’t what I meant.” He seemed flustered, no doubt displaced by the determination in her voice. “There are things in this realm, Betty, that you are yet to face and there is no doubt in my mind that Charles was able to protect you from them with his wards. But my coming here--I’m afraid it broke those wards completely and I know not what that brings, but it will most assuredly bring danger in one shape or another. At the very least, the Imperium will be alerted to your existence and they will want to bring you back to the fold. When that happens, you will want it to be on your terms, not theirs.” 

Betty could hardly understand what the danger was at this time. All she could hear was Jughead telling her she couldn’t do what she wanted, what she had been doing without him the last 6 years.

“I will not be controlled by you.”

“And I am doing no such thing. I am protecting you, Betty. It is what Charles would have wanted.”

And there it was again. 

She would give anything to have her dearest brother back, but if it meant she would be pushed back into the home, sat back behind books and settled to theory instead of action, she couldn’t bear it. 

Is that what Jughead’s return meant? 

He looked at her with his beautiful blue eyes, imploring, not demanding. And with his black curls tumbling over his forehead, he looked so unbearably handsome and so caring that it was hard to be mad at him. There was a fight here, but it wasn’t with Jughead. 

Charles had been everything to him, just as Charles had been to her. Jughead felt it his duty to protect her and she understood as much. She couldn’t be mad at him, but six years later, he couldn’t possibly know what she was capable of. And perhaps that wasn’t his fault.

“I must go to bed, as should you.” she said in a quiet tone, turning to leave.

“Betty.”

“Do you remember where you old room is?” She knew he remembered, but she wished to forestall anything he may say that might make her thoughts of him less understanding. “Of course you do. Well, goodnight. I shall see you at breakfast.”

_ Please don’t be angry. _

It was always like that with him. Like she knew his thoughts by the language of his body, or the way his eyes spoke volumes when she listened just enough. 

She wasn’t angry, but she was deeply disappointed with him. She cast him a final look before she turned and left Jughead in the parlor. 

********************

Betty went to bed with her head filled with a million thoughts. And when she awoke, those same thoughts flooded her mind once again. She dragged herself out of bed and prepared for her day wondering if she was doomed to be the eccentric, younger relation that no one could get rid of. 

She had hoped that Jughead would at least treat her differently, hoped that he would understand her peculiarities and passions.

As she dressed, she looped the strings of her corset around her fingers and she pulled, tight. She breathed in deeply and let her bones settle against the pressure. Perhaps she meant for it to fortify her mettle. 

She picked a more modest dress to wear, this time, with a ruffled high collar, frilly accents, long sleeves, lace cuffs, and a feminine bustle. The striped embroidery tracing the material of her dress was flattering, but relatively low key. 

It was hot as Hades out, if she were to go by her constitution, but she was Kin, so a cool morning like this would almost always feel warmer to her. 

When she was properly dressed, she braided her hair and draped its thick knot over her shoulder. 

She looked at herself in the mirror. During the day, she played the part she was expected to play. Not quite like everyone else, for her oddness was too much a part of her to conceal, but acceptably quiet. 

She grabbed her brown leather gloves, her hat, and her parasol. She was at least fit to be seen. 

As she stepped out of her room, she almost ran into Jughead, who was himself just leaving his room. 

He looked so dashing, with his dark grey suit, herringbone green vest, and matching grey tie. The suit fit him so well that she didn’t doubt that it was tailored for him. His jaunty top hat, the one she had held for him during their escape the previous night, was tucked firmly under his arm. 

He seemed surprised by her appearance. “Betty.”

She straightened her shoulders and gave him a small curtsy. “Jughead. Good morning. I know it’s your house now, but I still live here, so don’t look so surprised to find me. It will take more than you prancing into this home to kick me out.”

“That’s not--” He pursed his lips tight when he realized, perhaps, that she was joking. Mildly. His cheeks were certainly flaming. “Your appearance… is a drastic difference from last night.”

She could not help but chuckle. “Did you think I had a closet full of the latest in harlot fashion?”

His eyebrows arched in mild surprise.

She continued. “I thought I might dress more modestly so as not to offend the gentleman on the premises.”

He looked even more taken aback, but he followed it with a soft scoff. “I see no gentleman here.”

She had gotten so used to people reacting negatively to her more sarcastic commentary that she had forgotten that Jughead Jones used to fill that void of avid banter specialist. 

Some things, it seemed, never changed. She fought valiantly to stifle her smirk. “You are still a rascal.”

He nodded and offered his arm. “I am dependable that way.”

She took it and together they descended the steps. 

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked all of a sudden. “About what I asked you to do last night?”

Did she owe him the truth? Maybe. Charles trusted him enough to leave his entire fortune and the care of his sister to Jughead. She should at least be willing to tell him the truth. “I am not angry. Just disappointed. I had expected you to understand me. We are both Kin. We both perform our sworn duty as dealers of peace, even if only one of us bear the power and authority of the Guild, as vested by the Imperium. But does that make you better than me?”

“Of course not,” he said in a somewhat tired tone. She did not blame him. She could be tiresome, she knew. “But I don’t know if you realize that the danger is real. Beyond Charles’s wards, there are things I cannot unsee.”

“And you don’t think I am equal to it.”

“Riverdale is a small, _ small _town.”

It was an effort for her not to feel crestfallen by his words. “That may be, but time has taught me things, too. I am not thirteen anymore, Jughead. I have seen things, as well. Do you still think me a child?”

_ “No,” _was his quick reply. He turned to her, one step beneath her on the stairs. “How could I?” He seemed poised to tell her more, but he did not go on, prompting them to continue their descent. 

It was frustrating that he would say something and then nothing more. She always knew Jughead to keep his thoughts and feelings closely guarded. There were matters he could speak a storm of, mostly relating to academic and intellectual pursuits--that was the part of him he was willing to share, but emotions and his life story was reserved to his most trusted. 

In the past, that was her and Charles. Now, she did not know if she held the same privilege. 

They arrived at breakfast, the spread laid out on the table by the maid, likely with the assistance of Alice herself. Since they cut the staff, they had been without a butler for months, which Betty didn’t mind, but Alice hadn’t stopped huffing about.

Some days, Betty did her share of the housework. It was not her favorite past time, but she preferred it to fulfilling the social obligations that seem to arise in perpetuity.

As they sat for breakfast, Alice asked Jughead to apprise her once more of his plans, this time however, she prescribed several ways for him to go about it and about how she wanted him back at the house at a specific hour. 

Jughead seemed more confused by the fact that Alice was speaking to him at such length regarding such adult matters. She had never done so in the past, where Charles was there to take up all her attention. He hardly ventured to recommend his own means. 

When Alice was done with Jughead, she moved on to Betty, and it was an itinerary of never ending tea-times, pointers on how Betty should act, and how she should _ not _act.

“Your mockery is one thing--” Alice began.

“It goes right over their heads,” Betty cried.

“But your gravity is worse.”

“Do you mean when I told them that society is better served by educated women? Was it not enough for them that I put ‘women’ and ‘serve’ in one sentence?”

Alice glared at her across the plate of cut fruit. “You nearly gave Mr. Hardgrave a stroke.”

“He is ancient. And he wants to marry me. It would serve me if he joined his fellow dinosaurs in extinction.”

“You should be so lucky to have an ancient husband. They are too old to demand anything in the matrimonial bed. If they even get past you removing your clothing, one stroke and they’re done for.”

Jughead choked ingloriously on his tea. 

“Is your tea too hot, Forsythe?” Alice asked through gritted teeth. 

“Unbearably,” he rasped. “Betty, perhaps I can accompany you when you make your rounds.”

She cast him a hopeful look, but her hopes were shattered by Alice’s “Nonsense. You have important meetings to attend to all day.”

Betty smashed a hardboiled egg with the flat of her spoon. She couldn’t quite argue, since Jughead was attending to their future.

She and Jughead met eyes across the table and the small shrug he gave her reminded her of the solidarity that so often served to tighten the bonds of their friendship. 

After breakfast, they prepared themselves for their respective journeys. 

Betty arrived at the foyer just as Jughead was heading out the door. 

“Be careful, Betty,” he said. “Now that you’re exposed, the dangers won’t wait for nightfall.”

It was a little worrying, but she couldn’t imagine it being anything she can’t handle. “You must tell me all about the Kin when we’re back at home, Juggie. As dangerous as you make it seem, I’m sure there is a lot about it that is wondrous and exciting--you wrote me letters, as you said, and I am sure its pages are filled with stories of your new world.”

The corner of his lip lifted. _ “New… _six years ago it was, and I never would have conceived of such a world in my wildest dreams. It surprises me still, but it isn’t perfect. I can perceive how Charles may have had disagreements with the way they conduct matters…”

He tucked his hat under his arm as hers and Alice’s carriage rolled onto the front carriage way. The Guild carriage came up right behind it. 

Alice arrived, her hat a magnificent plumage, with the maid skittering behind her with her parasol and purse. 

It was Jughead who hurried to open the carriage door for Alice, and Alice accepted his assistance without hesitation--as if that were always his purpose in their lives. 

When Alice was settled in the cab, he turned to Betty, offering his hand. 

She took it, gathering her skirts to alight the carriage. “We have much to talk about, Jughead. I will see you later. And you must be careful, as well.”

He laughed softly. “I always am.” 

His laughter felt like a feather down her spine and she knew then that her feelings for him hadn’t waned in the least. He shut the door and tapped the side of it for the benefit of the coachman. 

Their carriage moved and she looked over her shoulder, pushing back the small privacy curtain so that she could watch him grow farther away. 

He seemed a marvel, poised and confident as he alighted his own carriage. 

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Alice huffed. “If he is anything like his father, he is nothing but trouble.”

Betty scoffed, but for all of Alice’s posturing, it was Trouble that got them where they are now. 

******************

Jughead became the unlikely master of the Cooper residence and all its holdings by tea time. 

He seemed, to Betty, exhausted by the handover, not because of the thick sheaf of documentation he said he had to read all at once, but because of the endless parade of Administrator of This and Representative of That stemming from the transaction. Jughead now had appointments with half a dozen new strangers, and as if that weren’t enough, the Introduction of the Daughters have begun.

Betty did not blame him for expressing his desire to head back to the city for a spell. Physically removing himself from all this seemed just the remedy to all the shenanigans. 

As promised, Alice spoke to him at length about restaffing the house--how they needed at least the main staff: the steward, the butler, the housekeeper, the cook, the kitchen maid, the waiter, the housemaid, coachman, gardener, and footman. 

“You may want to keep a valet--Charles never had one, but you might. Should you prefer to have one, I would advise that we combine the butler and valet, especially if you intend to commute between here and your home in the city.”

Jughead seemed confounded by the suggestion of a valet. “I can dress myself, thank you, and don’t I just have to authorize their salaries? The running of the household ought to be overseen by one who knows how, and I don’t--we keep a leaner house staff in the city; we have a butler, housekeeper, coachman, and cook, and only because none of us can be depended upon to take care of the house and the kitchen, especially since all of us have occupations to keep us out of it most of the day.”

Alice huffed. “We can be leaner, if you wish. The butler and steward can be the same person, the cook can do without a kitchen maid, and we may do away with a footman. I think I can do without a Lady’s Maid if the housemaid can do it--”

“I do not wish anything,” Jughead said, visibly distressed by Alice’s assertions that he held any sway in their home. “This is your home.”

“This was always your home, too.” Betty said it, plainly, but she realized the weight of it when he looked chastised for it.

He said nothing and she imagined that all this was overwhelming to him. Apart from the fact that he was now, in fact, independently wealthy, for Charles _ had _been a good businessman, and in addition to the notion that both Alice and Betty were now his responsibility by the standards of the Daemon Locked, he had yet to deal with his grief. Charles’s death was still fresh to him. 

After Alice left, Jughead’s shoulders visibly loosened and his gaze wandered to the grounds outside. He seemed lost and Betty admired his profile for a moment before she touched his arm lightly with her finger.

This seemed to wake him from his reverie and he tilted his chin in the direction of the garden. “You’re right. This was my home, too. Charles always said so, but I knew that the truth about us being half-siblings could never come to light, because it would ruin your mother. Even now, nobody can know the truth, but he made sure that I knew he meant it--that I was his family.”

Betty nodded, and this time, she laid her hand upon his shoulder. “There is yet another place you need to go visit, today.”

Betty took Jughead to Charles’s grave, and she stepped back, letting Jughead have his time with their brother. 

She watched Jughead kneel on the soft grass, put his hand on Charles’s headstone, and shed his tears for the only brother he ever knew. 

Betty understood deeply that it would be a while before Jughead’s grief would cease to follow him into his dreams, and later still before he could go a minute without thinking about Charles when awake.

He needed time, and perhaps going back to the city would be good for him, after all. 

“How did it happen?” Jughead asked as he rose from the ground. 

“Hunting accident. He fell off his horse and broke his neck.”

“And his spirit never--”

Betty shook her head. “He believed in you. He trusted that you would take care of us and he had no doubt whatsoever, which is why he moved on peacefully. I know that now.”

Jughead nodded, tapping the gravestone with affection and gravity. “That he did. And I will not betray his trust, Betty.”

He waited for a response, and without averting her eyes, Betty replied, “I am certain that you won’t.”

*********************

It was easy to slip past Jughead that evening, most especially because he wasn’t there. He left after dinner, claiming that he had assignments from the Guild to complete. And it was easy enough to make Jughead think that she would actually listen to him. 

She needed to be out that evening, having learned from her tea-time rounds that certain esteemed members of the government liked to visit the Chinese tea-house in the other side of town. 

Betty didn’t know what she was looking for, but she had to understand how it was possible for a governor to get in touch with a Murderer for Hire like Malachi. It was too much risk to send someone else to make the deal. If the governor wanted to keep his mistress a secret, it would serve him to keep his circle tight. 

There was only ever one person who knew the secrets of their master more than their wives, and that was one’s personal coachman. It was Jughead who gave her the idea, having heard that he traveled with his coachman and trusted him almost unconditionally. Trust between the coachman and his charge were of the utmost importance. 

As soon as he was gone, she transformed into her alter-ego, Chic, and made her way into town.

*********

Betty had frequented the poorer streets of Riverdale in the last few years, but she had never quite been to the upper class pleasure district. There hadn’t been a necessity for it—not as Elizabeth Cooper, nor as Chic. 

The Vice Quarter, as it was known in Riverdale, was a network of interlocking streets filled with pubs, gambling dens, and pleasure houses. On the surface, they were perfectly acceptable looking establishments, but it was no place for a respectable, unmarried woman. Its clientele were of specialized sort.

All the way up here, north of New York City, this was the place rich men, their mistresses, and their vices went, away from the big city eyes of society that may take their pleasures against them. 

The Great Lotus, a well-known tea house in these parts, was owned by the man called the Luminary. It was said he had many businesses, from New York City to Connecticut. This was his stake in Riverdale. 

The Great Lotus was a perfectly legitimate place, with a proper restaurant and proper amusements, but Betty’s reputation would not survive if she were to be seen here alone as an unmarried young woman. The Great Lotus’s lesser known entertainments did involve carnal perversions and a drug den for consumers of all known hallucinogenic elixirs. Access to these darker pleasures required a certain status--the higher the better.

It was brightly lit inside and out, with attractive looking young ladies in oriental clothing urging gentlemen from the street to join the festivities inside. There were a few smartly dressed women outside—not prostitutes, but mistresses, hanging from the arms of their wealthy lovers. 

Even as Chic, Betty wasn’t assured of anonymity here, the way she was on the Southside. It was easy enough to be Chic where they didn’t know who she was as Betty, but here, where the wealthy played, she was in danger of being recognized. Here, invisibility was her best disguise. 

Pulling her hat more securely over her head, she checked her pocket watch for the time. It was only a bit half past ten. There would be plenty of time to get back home before midnight. Shutting the timepiece, she made her way to the back alleys of the Great Lotus, where the coachmen and staff were likely to gamble as they passed the time, waiting for their masters.

*************

If Pain were a person, she would be Jughead’s lady. 

Pain could confound, bringing a man to his knees begging for relief. It woke a man in his sleep, nagging and insistent, and no matter how much one tried to ignore it, it wasn’t going away.

Jughead Jones could never ignore his pain. It was constant, and not his will, nor his guilt proved strong enough to fight it. The pain had won--several times. 

The Healer’s recommendations for the pain in his bones were helpful. The bottle of relief were filled will pills, mild in its deliveries of medication. Jughead learned the manageability of pain through the gentle pellets of pain suppressants, and it became even easier when he was fitted with a brace in fashioned steel to help his damaged arm. His titanium sleeve, comfortably molded to his arm like a cast, restored his strength and vanished the pain like a wondrous scientific wand. 

Yet Lady Pain remained in his head, waking him in his sleep with nightmares, squeezing his heart until it felt regret, racking his mind with thoughts of unworthiness and debilitating bouts of guilt. 

The Bottle of Relief gave no relief at all. He needed something stronger, and the good doctor would give him nothing for it. 

He had needed a Bottle of Happiness, or Forgetfulness, at least to a degree that he could function, however artificial, however much a recreation of that which should be real it was.

A doctor with a decent practice would offer no such false healing, nor provide quick means to fix what could be considered broken. Jughead felt overtired of words meant to soothe his impatience on the matter. 

“These things take time,” the doctor had said. “Only a constant healthful regimen and behavioral exercises can heal the aches of the mind. Guided reflection is key.”

Long-term treatment seemed an impractical option, for it took an eternity, and Jughead did not believe he could stand another day of waking nightmares, or another restless night. The ache in his arm disappeared, but he was broken, and he only wished to be fixed.

He had joked through his failing recovery that his friend and work partner Trevor Brown always liked to up the stakes, and so he went and got himself killed to throw a wrench in Jughead’s otherwise steady life. But of course that was no laughing matter. Not when it was Trevor’s death that got him in this predicament, not when, in Trevor’s infinite recklessness, Jughead tried to save him from it. 

Even as the same bullet pierced Jughead’s arm, he was thinking Trevor was a twat with his reckless ideas. And it might have been funny, in spite of it all, were it not for the force of the shot, which went straight through Jughead’s arm and into Trevor’s body. And when they both fell to the ground in a bleeding heap, Jughead called Trevor’s name and the reply was, _ “Fuck, this is bad, Jones.” _

Jughead remembered pushing himself off the ground, nearly fainting from the pain of his injury, but he pressed his hands over Trevor’s wounds, trying and failing to staunch the blood as he called for Marmaduke--Moose, as they called him for he was an incredibly large and strong fellow, to get the carriage so that they may speedily transport Trevor to a doctor. 

“Hold on, you rascal,” Jughead had hissed, fighting through his own pain. 

Trevor still managed to laugh, but as the blood poured from his body, he told Jughead, “I don’t want to die,” just as the light left his eyes. 

Jughead had tried and tried to push that memory away, but it would not stay quiet. Not when the pain on his arm waned. Not when he strapped his Peace Dealer gear back on. Not when he was back on missions to save the souls of the dead and the lives of the living. 

Only when he retired for the night and had that shot of absinthe did he find relief. So when that began to lose its efficacy, he desperately sought something stronger and he knew what that remedy was. 

He had never tried it before, but he’d heard whispers from the darker corners of New York of apothecaries who provided relief when physicians failed you. He had never tried to procure it before--he suspected Trevor might have partaken before, but he didn’t have his friend to turn to now that he wanted it. Not anymore. Not ever. 

The apothecary in New York City was known as the Luminary and offered no other name. When Jughead sought a cure for his troubles, the tremulous uncertainty in his voice prompted the Luminary to reassure him. 

“I will offer you a complimentary dose tonight,” he said in his quiet, undemanding way. “And if it works to your satisfaction, you may purchase more.”

“I have never tried this before.”

“The first time is always the best,” said the Luminary magnanimously.

Jughead, still a bit unsure, had said, “I don’t wish to lose consciousness. I do not wish to obliviate my mind. I need only to function.”

The Luminary shrugged. “You will need _ some _rest, if only for a few minutes. To quiet your mind, you must allow it a quiet state.”

He was led to a surprisingly elegant hallway connected to a grandois, luxuriously decorated ballroom filled with lounge chairs, chaises, pillows, small canopied beds, and richly dressed men and women draped upon the furnishings in various states of rest. From the patrons’ french lace gloves and elegant beaded purses to the tailored coats, vests, and custom-made hats, this was no dime-store opium den. This was a place for members only--moneyed clientele. Some lay solitary, some in pairs, but all quietly behaved, each in their own states of bliss. 

Well-dressed attendants flitted about quietly, sanitizing any mess that may have been made, picking up broken pieces, or washing off spills with scrubbing materials. By times they saw to the needs of their customers, removing needles, repositioning customers more comfortably, replenishing their medicines, refilling their glasses of preferred libations, or simply to help them out the door and into coaches to send them on their way. 

Jughead had gazed uneasily upon this drug den and immediately thought to himself that this was a mistake, but the Luminary had been keen to his reservations.

“This will not be the company you’ll keep tonight,” the Luminary said. 

The Luminary led him further across the room and through a chamber, and there they came upon a room like a gentleman’s lounge, a social setting with privacy booths, a bar, a small string orchestra, and ladies who flitted about carrying trays of what the Luminary called “herbs”. 

“If you come back, you will be more familiar with what these herbs are,” the Luminary said. “But for now, I recommend you take one of these.” He pulled a pill from his pocket and led Jughead to a privacy booth. When Jughead sat upon its chairs, it felt cushioned and comfortable, perfect for lounging about in a state of relaxation. 

Most of the booths were filled, and while many of its occupants appeared conscious and responsive, they moved languidly and with leisure, like they hadn’t a care in the world, with dreamy eyes and serene smiles on their faces, as if everything were right in their respective worlds. 

Jughead longed for that inner peace. 

There was a plate with a mirror on its face and the Luminary placed the pill upon it. He plucked a small sheet of metal with a handle, like a small pastry cutter, from inside his robes and used it to cut the pill in half, then in half again. Bending the metal sheet upon the pieces, the Luminary crushed them into bits and continued to cut upon the remains until they were ground to powder. 

The Luminary arranged the powder into a thin line then raised the mirrored plate towards Jughead. The cutter had disappeared, replaced by a miniscule tube. 

Jughead had never done this before, but he had seen others do it, so he was no stranger to the _ hows, _but he took a moment to tell himself that he only needed this for a while, that once he had a better grasp of his emotions, he would be able to function without the help of the Luminary’s medications. 

“It is but a mild mixture of my more potent formulations,” said the Luminary quietly. “You will need nothing stronger, I assure you.”

Jughead took the tube, rolling it between his fingers and feeling the small impressions against his skin. The intricate carvings on the tube was exquisite to behold. Exotic like the medicine it delivered.

Bending over the mirror, Jughead breathed in the line and let the medicine work. 

************

That night at the Luminary’s New York opium den three years ago had marked the beginning of Jughead’s addiction, and ten months ago had marked the end of it--or so he hoped. 

He had kept his growing addiction secret the first year, but a night’s drug binge left him unconscious and half-dead on his bed where his father discovered him, half-choking on his vomit. If not for his father, he might have perished in his sleep. 

His first brush with an overdose hadn’t given him the full resolve to give up his addictions then, but it had given him pause, and he had been attempting detoxification since. His father, whom he had loathed as a boy for getting lost in his alcohol, was now his most important ally, helping him overcome his demons.

This was so far the longest Jughead had managed to stay clean.

So now Jughead Jones wondered if his father wasn’t leading him on a wild goose chase, or testing his sobriety.

The pleasure district, so near the Luminary’s Riverdale establishment, was no place for a recovering addict like him, but it was where Forsythe Senior, affectionately called FP by his nearest and dearest, told him the budding Wraith Lord would be.

So far, he was yet to spot the Wraith Lord, but the tracker confirmed that he was among them. 

Jughead twisted a dial on the datamancer mounted within the carraige’s interior. He pressed on the row of keys that became available to him and entered the information necessary to give him the information he needed. His hope was eliminate the aether-noise being generated by the chaos outside, so he may isolate the location of the Wraith Lord, but there was too much interference in the aether. The datamancer could only do so much. 

Trevor had often scoffed at the Guild-issued equipment. “Rubbish. All of it.”

It was a fundamental disagreement between them, for Trevor had grown up with such technologies and Jughead had only learned of it when he joined Kin society to be with his family. All technology, rubbish or not, was wondrous to Jughead. 

Trevor wished for the old ways, tracking with the instinct innate in their kind. In a way, that was probably what made Trevor and Jughead such perfect partners. Jughead had been taught in the old ways, courtesy of Charles, and in that, Trevor respected him. 

Jughead frowned, as he always did when remembering his deceased partner.

He pressed his lips together and willed himself to refocus. He plucked out his aural communicator, fitting it on his ear. He could feel the device’s ornate engravings scraping against the pads of his fingers. When it was in place, he checked his pocket watch. It was a little past eleven thirty in the evening.

He turned a knob in his aural communicator and crackle of aether preceded the voice of FP Jones. “What, now?”

“I wouldn’t have to keep contacting you if those Reaper reports were better detailed,” Jughead grumbled. 

“You’ve worked with worse and have succeeded,” FP said. “So if you are upset about something else and cannot get past that, abort the mission and try again in the morning.”

Jughead scowled. There was no _ tomorrow morning _with Wraith Lords. One rarely had the opportunity to spot the same Wraith Lord twice. If he missed this one, there was little chance that he would see it again. “I will do this tonight. You need not be short with me.”

“What is wrong with you, boy? Is the countryside displacing your constitution?”

What did that even mean, honestly? “I grew up here, father. Why would I be displaced?”

“It is your business with the Coopers, then, that has you fretting--Charles’s death. I asked you earlier if your grief--”

“You know nothing of my grief,” Jughead said. The last thing he wanted was to discuss such matters with FP, even if, or perhaps because he wasn’t far from the mark.

His grief for Charles was fresh and, if he let it, debilitating, but he had dealt with death before, and if there was anything his addictions and subsequent sobriety was teaching him, it was that staying busy helped take off the edge. He welcomed this mission--doing what he loved served as a therapeutic distraction. So the grief was fueling his drive. This was different.

What set him on edge were the newfound realities of his status. 

He was now the sole heir of Charles’s estate, his holdings, and his wealth. But more importantly, Charles had entrusted both Alice and Betty to his care, and Jughead wasn’t sure he was equal to that, especially since it was proven that he wasn’t quite equipped to take care of himself. 

Alice’s wants were straightforward--she needed a home to take care of, a reputation to keep, and a life where she could preside over tea, host and attend parties, and keep company with important people. So long as Jughead could come to an agreement with Charles’s partners on royalties with respect to Charles’s share of the business, Alice could live her lifestyle free of worry. 

It was Betty’s situation that was far more complicated. 

Jughead could tell that even now, matured and grown, Betty had no desire to play the part of a woman of leisure, even if she could with a snap of her fingers. She was almost offensively beautiful, with her golden hair, enchanting green eyes, and a figure he suspected was the envy of many. But it was clear she had no ambitions of marrying well and being someone’s wife. 

She appeared to have no interest in making those vital connections and relationships the Daemon Locked craved. She took her duties as Peace Dealer seriously and never shied away from rougher demands of investigation. 

He admired that about her greatly, but it made the management of his responsibilities more challenging. 

He didn’t expect her to sit still at home and nor did he blame her for it, but he was sure Charles had made sure of her safety one way or another, in the same way Charles had assured his. In the past, when an investigation was known to be dangerous, Charles never made him go alone. Charles was both Jughead’s mentor and partner. 

If he were to ensure Betty’s safety, he needed to be hers, but how could he when he had a life in the city? Did he, then, need to move back to Riverdale? It was both a distressing and tantalizing thought. 

Distressing because he had found purpose and excitement as a Guild Peace Dealer, but tantalizing, because it would take him away from the temptations that have plagued him the last few years. 

These were the thoughts plaguing him at the moment, even as he worked to catch this Wraith Lord.

“I just want to do my work,” Jughead said, making no move to explain all of it to his father. FP did not known that Charles had made him the sole heir to the estate, though he may suspect, or figure it out, for how else were the Cooper women expected to survive? 

Gladys certainly did not know, or else his mother would apply enormous amounts of pressure on him to sell and liquidate all of Charles’s properties, Alice and Betty Cooper be damned. 

He simply could not do that to Betty. Aside from the injustice of her being unable to inherit her brother’s wealth, the house in Elm was her home. It was where she grew up, where she formed and nurtured her most important relationships. 

Earlier, when he looked out in the gardens, the pang of nostalgia he felt having spent hours of his youth there, a lot of times with Betty, was enough to make him want to stay in Riverdale for longer. 

He could ask an extension from his father, he thought. 

It was a plan quickly overpowered by reason. His mother would suspect. So would the Guild. It was true what he told Betty--the Imperium would seek her out soon enough, but he wanted it to be on her terms, not theirs. Charles had, in the past, referenced how he wanted Betty to be prepared for when they found her. He wasn’t sure what Charles was so wary of, but Jughead suspected it had to do with his ex-communication. 

Jughead’s hints at finding out more about it had been overruled by Charles, many times, and he had warned Jughead that trying to find out from the Guild may put Betty in danger of being ex-communicated herself. 

Because of that, Jughead hadn’t risked it--not when it was Betty’s future on the line. 

Jughead was just about to pull on his goggles, hoping that enhanced vision would give him a more accurate measure of where he should be looking, when he felt the strong pull of aether beckon him. He looked through the window and saw, with certainly, Betty walking out of the Great Lotus’s back alley. 

She was barely recognizable to anyone else. She was in workmen’s clothing, and her beautiful blonde hair was tucked into a leather boilerman’s cap. She had the collar of her jacket propped high around her neck and her hands were in her pockets. Her strides were gone of any feminine sway, practiced, no doubt, from years of having worn this disguise. 

That he spotted her at all was nothing short of luck.

She was headed away from the Great Lotus and he wondered, nonsensically, if Betty liked to gamble. It was not unheard of that a lady would have such a habit, though he can’t imagine that a lady, disinherited, would spend what little she had left on such a vice. 

No. It wasn’t in Betty’s constitution. Passionate though she was, her pragmatism was reliable. She was on an investigation, and he was only slightly incensed that she hadn’t heeded his warnings to stay at home and be safe. 

_ Did you honestly think Betty would stay put? She has no reason to listen to you. _

Jughead wasn’t sure if that was his own mind or his Daemon enhancing his earlier musings. 

Jughead pushed out of the carriage. “Give me a moment, Moose,” he told his coachman. “I’ll be back, shortly.”

Moose, his rump leaning against the carriage wheel, tipped his hat. “I’ll be here, Jones.”

Jughead pushed the rim of his hat slightly higher with the handle of his umbrella and pulled irritably at his scarf. It was as hot as Hades, and yet he needed the scarf to conceal some of the equipment around his neck.

The streets of the Vice Quarter moved like the tide of Sweetwater, people and coaches milling by, bundled in their thick furs and wools. The wind, it seemed, had a nip to it that the Daemon Locked were not so quick to dismiss.

A wind blew and people around him shuddered at the cold, huddling deeper into their spring coats as they hurried to get where they were going and not bear any more of this chill.

“Let me get back to you, father,” Jughead said into his ear piece. He followed Betty’s figure as it made its way down the street. “I will catch this Wraith Lord, don’t you fret. If you have no other details to offer me--”

“As a matter of fact, the Reapers just detected a strong surge of aether activity. An unauthorized displacement of soul occurred a few minutes ago, and it appears to be within your proximity.”

Jughead could not help his feelings of irritation. _ Now _they had better information?

“The Wraith Lord is _ moving,” _FP continued. “Possibly in your direction.”

Jughead grew alarmed, frantically transferring his attention between Betty and the supposedly approaching Wraith Lord.

FP huffed. “You asked for a better report, you have it. Let me know when the assignment is done. Stay safe, boy.”

Jughead supposed that was the end of it. 

He clicked off his earpiece, heading in the direction of Betty even as he kept an eye out for his supposed mark. It wouldn’t be very hard to spot a Wraith Lord. Just like Reapers, they gave off a faint dark glow, like the shadows around them devoured the light. But while Reapers preferred to skulk—perhaps it was the nature of their work—Wraith Lords liked to swagger, as FP called it, like a Peace Dealer.

Jughead did not like to call it a swagger. He had told FP that he did not swagger. Jughead felt he had things to do and perhaps that meant he couldn’t be bothered with being subtle about it.

He gave the crowd a cursory look for signs of a Wraith Lord. When he didn’t find one, he reverted his attention to Betty.

Adjusting his hat and straightening his coat, he moved, hurrying to cross the street to go after her. She was weaving easily through the crowd.

He dodged pedestrians, hurrying in the sea of bodies, his umbrella moving about like an oar. 

She seemed to have mastered the current of people, deftly walking between the spaces with accuracy and speed.

He was surprised at how hard it was to follow her. He was almost running now and he was feeling the tiniest bit annoyed. She shouldn’t be this difficult to catch. It felt like a chase, and given that she was in disguise, he didn’t dare call her name and give her away.

She dodged another person fluidly and her steps had become unnaturally brisk. 

It occurred to Jughead then—she was _ running. _ From _ him. _Did she not know it was him? She hadn’t looked behind her. She must think he was someone else.

Frustrated, he quickened his pace, and it was then she broke into a run.

“Oh, for—“ Jughead sighed. He cursed under his breath, going right after her. He didn’t want to shout out her name, but there were other ways to call her attention. “Charles!”

She stopped in her tracks, then, her shoulders losing tension, and when she turned to face him, her eyes showed surprise, and then recognition. Surely enough, they were rolling soon after. 

He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t going after her to haul her back home. It wasn’t the way he did things, and he wasn’t going to scold her, either. He was _ not _Charles. 

It was true when he said he admired her brass, but he was also concerned that his earlier musings about her safety were true. He had asked her to stay home as a precaution. There was no telling if his fears had any kind of merit. 

Now that she was here, there wasn’t much he could do about it. 

Her gaze was both accusory and resigned. _ Well, here we are. _

They locked eyes, and Jughead felt a strange, yet familiar, sensation, one that he hadn’t felt in years. The last time he experienced it, he had touched her newly inked Daemon Mark. 

Her eyes widened. He could tell by that look that she felt it too. The shock on her own face was unmistakable. She was transfixed and probably confused. 

Swallowing, he willed himself to move towards her, thinking about nothing _ but _her. It was as before, where it felt like belonging. Like coming home. 

As the haze began to dissipate from his senses, their surroundings came into focus once more, and sure enough, it only took a second for Betty to recover. 

He was about to go to her. Settle this situation once and for all, but there was a commotion on the street from behind her, where droves of people were desperately rushing to get off the road and onto the sidewalk. 

A chaise came barreling through the crowded streets, its horses massive and strong. 

Jughead’s instincts rose into full alert. His feet moved and his Mark flared hot and insistent.

_ Danger. _

Betty had turned to look at where the noise was coming from and she took a step back, probably frightened by the chaise that was going fast enough to run her over. 

It took only a few seconds.

Jughead flipped the switch on his umbrella, pulling the blade out and aiming for the hands that reached out of the carriage door. But Jughead already knew he was too late.

His blade crashed against the metal door and Betty was yanked off her feet, a burlap bag draping over her head as she went.

The chaise sped off into the crowd and Jughead cried out her name, forgetting that he shouldn’t, his voice drifting in the wind.

*************

Betty thought she couldn’t breathe. The bag, made of a thick, scratchy fiber, pressed against her nose and mouth, cutting off her breath as she took air in.

Her arms and legs were bound with what felt like rope. Her earlier struggles had done nothing but bruise and scratch her. Her screams were left unanswered, drowned out by the furious clopping of the horses’ gallop and the rattling of the chaise.

The floor, probably filthy from grime, pressed uncomfortably against her bones. It was cramped at the bottom of the chaise, greatly reducing her capability to fight back, even if she wanted to.

She felt the searing heat emanating from the mark on the back of her neck. It always acted like so when she was in danger, but she’d never felt it quite this hot. Perhaps the danger this time was extreme. It was times like this that she hoped that her Daemon would finally make itself known to her--moments of great need were known to encourage it. But she received her mark late, so it seemed logical to suppose that her Daemon’s quickening would come late as well. 

The heat of her mark flared once more, then it waned back to nothing. 

Her heart beat a steady rhythm in her chest, but strangely, it began to soothe her. The fear, instead of incapacitating her will, seemed to be fueling it, and she steadied her thoughts. 

_ Jughead _had seen her get taken and wasn’t going to stand by and let her fend for herself, but more importantly, what she felt when she met gazes with him was unearthly. She’d felt it in the past, years ago when she first received her mark, but now it felt even more profound. It was like she had a connection to him—as if she should have known this fact all her life.

Her nonsensical musings actually helped to calm her even more, and amidst her frenzied thoughts, she finally found her bearings. Even if she knew Jughead would come after her, it didn’t mean she needed to wait. She had to help him help her. She was never a passive player.

“I’m not afraid of you, you know,” she said in the haughtiest voice she could muster. She was surprised to realize this was true. Very little frightened her anymore. Charles made sure of that.

She felt hands falling upon her, roughly hauling her by her ropes like a sack of flour, and depositing her on the chaise seat. Her cheek banged against the metal fittings and she complained loudly, struggling stubbornly against her captor.

The only sign he gave that he was having any kind of difficulty was a short grunt, and then he had his hand on the back of her neck, shoving her face against the cushion of the seating. 

She felt most undignified, with her arse in the air and her nose flat against her face. She was breathing through her mouth and she suddenly felt a draft on the back of her head when her coat was snatched away, as if he had sliced through the fabric.

She felt fingers, ungloved, run against the outline of her tattoo—the image of which she knew by heart. She knew he was tracing the wings, and then the face. The hairs on her arms prickled, her blood thudding through her ears. 

His hand clamped down on her shoulder and she felt his grip tighten. “Tell me its name!” 

She pursed her lips and tried to shrug him off. His strength did not waver.

“Tell me his name, Daemon Wielder!”

She couldn’t give him that information if she wanted to. Her Daemon hadn’t quickened, so she didn’t know its name at all, but she wasn’t going to offer that defense. Her pride wouldn’t let her. “Yes, of course! I’ll tell you its name. I would certainly give up that information easily!”

His hand pushed down hard and he gave a yell of frustration, demanding that she tell him its name in an unearthly, increasingly angry voice.

Again, she refused, which only served to make him even more frustrated. His grip turned painful, his fingers flexing to dig into her skin, as if he were trying to sink his nails into her, and the force of his desperation sent a bolt of awareness through her that filled her with horror. 

He would force the information from her. He would do all he could to _ make _her remember even if she couldn’t. 

She moved, bucking roughly against him. She felt something hot and fast cut into her shoulder, and then there was a sharp pain.

There was a burst of profanity from her captor, words she had heard uttered only in the roughest streets of the Southside, but she relished it, because it meant she was making it difficult for him to do what he wished to do.

She hoped to shake off the burlap bag, thrashing her head to and fro while she kicked with her bare feet, but just when she thought she was buying herself more time, that same hand came down on her throat, pinning her to the chaise seat once more.

His iron grip had her choking.

“You are useless to me dead,” he said in a deep, rasping voice. “Tell me its name or I will have to use other means to extract that information from you.”

She found little comfort in that and it was not an option she was considering in the least.

She felt her resolve solidify once more and she was about to burst into another fit of struggles when the horses outside gave terrified neighs and the chaise came to an abrupt and violent halt. 

She rolled forward and the bag must have caught on something, because it was ripped from her head as she was thrown against her captor in a bone rattling crash. Her body was an awkward weight on top of him and he struggled to push free of her, but she could see now, and when she put her mind to it, she could do damage with what she had.

She pulled her head back and smashed his nose with her forehead.

He yowled, in pain or in surprise, she could not tell, but he kicked her off him, his foot against her gut. It hurt, but she wore a corset even in men’s clothing, mostly to bind her breasts, but it also served as a sturdy protective layer around her body and she had room to fall back, weakening its impact. She crashed back against the carriage door and she stumbled outside the chaise. 

Using her body weight, she let herself land on her back and used her momentum to roll smoothly to her knees on the hard cobbled ground. Another carriage had come in the path of her captor’s, which had likely caused the sudden halt.

She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to get away in the state she was in. Her arms were bound to her body, but her legs were free and there was no shame in escape.

She was just about to launch herself into a run when a spectral form exploded from within the chaise and out through the door. 

It was bright, like fire. The creature had talons instead of fingers. Its arms were scraggly and long, its feet the size of half her body, and on its shoulder sat a head that looked like a cross between a skull and a crocodile.

It opened its maw and roared, the force of its hot breath sending her hair whipping all around her. She turned away, willing her mind to help her and not lock itself in a state of paralyzing confusion.

_ Now would be a spectacularly good time for my Daemon to quicken. _

Her mark seared, but no Daemon save the one coming at her made itself known. 

The creature raised its clawed hand and reached for her soul, and all she could really think about now was how utterly disgraced her mother would be should they find her murdered body in the filthy streets of the Vice Quarter, cause-of-death unknown.

But then the monster was suddenly knocked on its side by an immense ball of blue. The collision was so powerful, it sent both chaises sliding away several feet. 

Betty watched as the blue ball took the shape of what she could only describe as a gargoyle. 

Its powerful body sent the fire creature spinning into the deserted streets, and before the fire creature could get up, the gargoyle leapt atop it, taking its arm and ripping it off.

The fire creature howled and the Deamon’s luster waned momentarily. It should have been done for at that moment, but it summoned what little of its power was left and hurled a ball of spectral fire in Betty’s direction. 

Betty jumped to avoid it, but it was too late. It would catch her and burn her soul to cinders. 

But when, seconds later, she was still alive and was staring into the dark blue eyes of the gargoyle, its wings wrapped around them both like a shield, she could barely grasp the fact that she was going to live another day. 

When the gargoyle unfurled itself from her, the fire creature was nowhere to be seen. She thought she might have heard running footsteps at its wake, but she wasn’t sure.

And then the gargoyle faded into the night, leaving in its wake Jughead in his disheveled suit. His black coat and vest were unkempt, but relatively pristine. His white blouse had come undone at the waist of his pants, and his knee-high boots, belted, buckled, and reinforced at the toes, with laces tied tight, were splattered with mud, and yet however unkempt his clothes were, however devil-may-care he seemed to wear his loosely tied cravat, his person, his skin, seemed untouchable by the Riverdale dirt. 

He straightened himself swiftly, uncrimping his vest and coat with a swift tug, while adjusting the belt around his hips. She could see the guns and gadgets strapped to his hips, otherwise hidden by his coat had he not been so flustered. The goggles around his neck were unhidden, but she wagered a scarf should had been there, and she supposed any kind of vigorous activity could have swiped it off him. 

This was _ not _ how Jughead looked leaving their house.

“Betty, are you alright?” he asked, going to her and helping her to her feet. 

Slowly, cautiously, she nodded.

He brought out a pocket knife, and carefully, he lowered his knife to the ropes that bound her. He made quick work of it, and when the ropes fell free, she examined her wrists. Her skin had been rubbed raw.

He took her hands in his, turning them over to check her wounds. “You’ll need something for this.”

He looked up, and their eyes met again, but that earlier feeling of connection did not repeat itself. Perhaps she had imagined it. 

“And that.” He nodded in the direction of her shoulder. She had a cut running just beneath her shoulder blade.

“That man--who took me. He cut me, but I suppose not on purpose. He wanted me alive.”

Her hat was gone, and her hair fell in a golden cascade. He pushed some of the hair back from her shoulder to look at the wound more closely. “Of course he did--at least until he could take your Daemon from you. He was a Wraith Lord.”

A Wraith Lord. Corrupted Kin, whose only desire was to collect the Daemons of others to gain power. It became, just like the abuse of any substance, an addiction. It required, of course, murdering the Kinsman--after torturing them at length, and then compelling the stolen Daemon to their will. Wraith Lords also acquired a taste for human souls, if only to maintain their strength between newly enslaved Daemons. 

She didn’t realize there were any in Riverdale. Then again, the Kin were few and far between in these parts. Wraith Lords were more common in the big cities, where there were many Kin to steal Daemons from. 

“He couldn’t, not even if I wanted him to,” she confessed, softly, as he examined her cut. “My Daemon is yet to quicken.” She was whispering because she was ashamed.

He paused and she could see the compassion in his eyes. “It’ll come. You received your mark late.”

She nodded, feeling her stomach tighten to knots the way it always did when she worried about the state of her Mark, at how she was afraid it would never quicken, and how it made her feel unwhole. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that this night would be quite as exciting as this.”

“Neither did I, to tell you the truth.” He reached into his coat and brought out a pristine and neatly folded handkerchief with the initials JJ sewn into a corner. He pressed it to her wound to staunch the flow of blood. 

She scoffed softly. “Didn’t you? You warned me to stay indoors.”

“I suppose I did, but I never expect to be right.”

She cast him a sidelong glance, and while he kept his eyes firmly on the cut on her shoulder, the corner of his lip was lifting in a lopsided grin. 

“How did you know where I was?” she asked. “How did you know I wasn’t at home like a proper, dutiful lady?”

He chuckled, gently taking her hand and pressing it to the handkerchief to replace his. “I didn’t. Know where you were, I mean. I was working and I saw you. And is that what ladies do at home? Being proper and dutiful?” 

“It’s what men think ladies do at home,” she shot back. 

He was about to say something when he stopped, pressed something in his ear, and signaled that he needed a moment. He turned away and she watched him intently, wondering if he was having a conniption fit. 

Then much to her surprise, he started speaking into thin air. “No, it got away. It had a hostage and I had to assure the hostage’s safety… yes, I will file a report. When I can. I can’t hear you, father. The Feromonic field is rife with interruptions. I will have to call you back.”

He turned his attention back to her. “I’m sorry. That was my father.”

“If you say so.” She wasn’t sure if he was going mad. 

Perhaps realizing that she was doubting him, he pulled an odd contraption from the side of his head. It was shaped to fit around his ear with a leather mold, with perceivable gears and copper coils. “It’s an aural communicator. It uses aether waves and feromonic fields to transport sound from one device to another.”

It was uncanny and beautiful, and she attempted to reach for it, but she saw that her fingers were soiled by her blood, and she pulled her hand back. 

“And you are communicating with… your father with this?”

He nodded. “I am.”

A thought struck her, then. How Jughead seemed to have access to these types of technologies. The very properties of the watch Charles gave her had offered a taste of these trans-spacial communications. If such devices were available, then it could be accessed by anyone in the realm of the Kin. “These… feromonic fields and aether waves. Is that how the Wraith Lord found me?”

His eyes grew sympathetic. “That is the widely held theory, yes. That the Kin are connected by waves and fields, that while we exist unnoticed among many of our kind, like in the city, out here in the Daemon Locked countryside, we would be easy prey to a traveling Wraith Lord. And with Charle’s wards down, _ something _was bound to come after you.”

She shook her head, peeling back his handkerchief to look at her wound.

“Keep pressure on it,” he prompted her, gently. “We should head back to your house--tend to your injuries.”

She briefly thought she might tell him no, that she came to the Vice Quarter on a mission--but there was no way she would be able to do more than what she’d already done. She had successfully engaged coachmen in the back alleys of the Great Lotus, had found information that may be vital to Laura’s crossing over. She was done for the night.

“My carriage is right there,” he added, nodding to the carriages behind her. 

Betty was glad to hear that there would be transportation going home. Parts of her were already beginning to ache, no doubt bruised by her thrashing about in close quarters. She may need more treatment than she first realized. 

Looking around her, she couldn’t for the life of her place where they were, for things were unexpectedly quiet. “Where are we?”

“Lorimer street,” he replied. “Just off Twilight. It’s harder to tell when we’re on the Other side.”

Betty nodded, breathing deeply. “Of course. The Other side.” She’d read about it. Knew what it was, but she’d never actually been in it. One needed to be in the presence of a Daemon to access it.

He began to walk towards the carriages. 

As she caught up to his stride, she saw a hat just a few paces ahead, and as they came upon it, he picked it up, dusted it off, and placed it upon his head. She spied bright blue gargoyle wings peeking from the collar of his shirt, sinking beneath the fabric as he once again straightened his clothing.

“It seems we are leaving the Other Side.”

Betty stopped in her tracks watched as the shadows, like ghosts, slowly began to appear around her. None of them paid her much mind, passing her by as pedestrians did, intent only upon arriving at their destinations. The shades began to solidify, taking on more form and detail. They transformed, slowly, into translucent figures of discernible characteristics. A maid here, a banker there, a lush staggering from wall to wall, a horse pulling its passengers in mid-air, a child attached to his mother by the hand. The properties and material matter followed soon after—fruit stalls and carriages, carts filled with sacks of grain, and the ground sprouting the debris of unwanted or lost things. The street was alive with activity once more.

Betty watched it all like she had never seen it before. It fascinated her--always did, that a dimension could exist upon the one better known to most. It was the effect of the Daemons. Once they were summoned, the dimensions of reality folded over, taking the Kin and all the chaos they brought with them somewhere the Daemon Locked cannot be hurt by them. 

They walked up to the carriage and it looked a little worse for wear this time. Its moving parts appeared to be intact, but one side of it was scratched and mangled where the other carriage had collided with it. It’s coachman’s seat was bent out of shape, and the beams that reigned the horses in line looked a little bent. The coachman, dusty on some parts of his coat, seemed unbothered by the state of his vehicle as he leaned against the door, smoking a cigarette. 

Jughead gave him a nod. “Are you alright, Moose? Took a bit of a spill there.” 

The coachman patted some of the dust off his jacket. “Good. You?”

“Very good, thanks. The Wraith Lord got away.”

The coachman nodded then slanted his gaze in her direction. “And you, Miss Cooper? How fare you?”

Betty was surprised at being addressed by the coachman at all in such a familiar fashion, but she didn’t mind it. “I am fine, thank you.” 

The coachman eyed her a moment, perhaps to ascertain if she was being truthful about her condition, but he seemed satisfied enough. He hoisted himself up his seat. “Where to next, Jughead?”

“We head back to the Cooper home,” Jughead said. He pulled open the carriage door and he extended his hand to help her in. She took it and was surprised at the wave of warmth their connection caused. 

They held hands, unmoving as they looked at one another in growing confusion. 

It was Moose’s loud cough that shook them out of their paralysis. 

She snatched her hand back, hastening into the carriage. 

She faintly heard Jughead grumbling, probably at Moose, “What are you looking at?” but pretended not to hear it as Jughead climbed into the cab right after her. 

This night, she concluded, was filled with the most unlikely surprises. And she quite hated surprises. 

  
  
  



	4. The Talented Mr. Smith

There was a book upon Charles’s desk, with a feather marking a place within its pages. _ Around the World in Eighty Days _by Jules Verne was engraved on its spine. 

Betty could see Jughead eyeing it briefly as they entered Charles’s study and she instantly knew what he was thinking. 

“The book is mine, not Charles’s. I read here sometimes. In his study. It helps with the grief.”

“Does it, now?” He proceeded to shrug off his coat to hang it on the rack, and she saw immediately the leathers that strapped his body, holding weapons and gadgets, some of which she recognized, many she didn’t. 

There were straps on his arms, as well, and she would have watched him the entire time he was undoing the contraptions if he hadn’t turned to her as he did so. He hung up the leathers with his coat as she averted her eyes. 

“Is Charles’s medicine kit still where I remember it to be?” he asked, striding across the room. 

She nodded, letting him go through the cabinets. He found the box that held Charles’s medical supplies and placed it on the coffee table. 

“Now, let’s take a look at those scrapes. And we can talk about tonight’s adventures, shall we?”

She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you going to scold me like a child?”

He looked at her askance, folding the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. She noticed the metal brace on his arm, and it irritated her that it served to fascinate her even more. Must she be so enamored of him that she couldn’t even be properly annoyed in his presence? 

“I should, shouldn’t I? But no, I am not going to scold you like a child.” He worked the levers of the small pump at the water basin, using the water and soap to sanitize his hands, and when the dirty water was drained, he carried a bowl of fresh water and placed it beside the box. “I am not your father and you are not a child. You are an adult woman who makes her own decisions and dresses like a young man.” He gestured for her and she glared at him, flinching away defiantly. 

Putting his hands up momentarily, perhaps to show that he had no tricks up his sleeve, he slowly motioned for the coat on her shoulders. 

Sighing, she let him help her out of her ruined coat. She would have to get a new one--or rather an old one, which was harder to come by because she could not shop for it herself. “You think my disguise silly.”

“I think it ingenious,” he said, setting the coat aside. “It allows you to be everywhere you need to be.” He prompted her to sit with him on the couch, and mollified by his words, she did, sitting like a proper lady in her men’s clothing. She pulled her ruined blouse around her more securely, noting that some of her corset had shown through her shirt. She hoped to God Jughead hadn’t seen it. 

He seemed focused enough on his box to have seen her underthings. 

The box contained all manner of medicine and materials useful for more immediately treatable injuries. He selected a clean cloth from the small pile in the box and dipped it in the water. When it was properly soaked, he wrung it out and delicately pushed her hair back from her shoulder to get better access to her wound. 

He began to clean the blood off with the cloth and she flinched, although he was light of touch.

“Although,” he continued as he worked. “How anyone is convinced that you’re a boy--even a pretty one--is beyond me.”

She felt warmth spread from her neck to her face and she knew he saw it, which only served to make it worse. “It isn’t just the look. It is the way I walk and talk. I make a convincing boy.”

“I suppose so. I know you too well, so I don’t believe I will ever be convinced.” His brows knitted. “This cut needs stitches and I cannot be depended on to do it with delicacy.”

“I know a physician at the coroner’s.”

He chuckled. “The coroner’s.”

“He is good!”

“I am certain he is, but his place of work is across town and here we have Moose, who is trained and experienced in treating injuries such as these.”

“You expect me to trust a man you call Moose?”

“Why not? You expected me to trust a man whose primary patients are all dead.”

“It’s a _ second job.” _ She knew she wasn’t going to win this argument, but she felt she had to defend Dr. Masters. “And they aren’t _ all _dead. He heals the living during the day.”

His grin told her he wasn’t apologetic in the least. “Most of them are from the Southside, I’d wager, so they’re poor. We will go to him for real emergencies, then. For now, Moose will do.”

She nodded her acquicense as he continued to examine her cut.

“I can clean this before I call him in to stitch you up,” he said, taking out a bottle of clear liquid and a sterilized roll of cotton. “Phenol solution.”

Betty made a face. “I know it. Get on with it.”

He smirked, but as he poured some of the phenol solution onto the cotton, he asked, “What were you doing at the Great Lotus?”

Of course he had seen her come out the back. “Investigating.”

“For the same spirit?”

She nodded. “The prostitute. Graduated to mistress, actually.”

“She’s an interesting one, that.” He applied the phenol onto her wound and it stung with a fury of a thousand hellhounds. 

She grit her teeth, biting her lip and breathing through the sting. 

Jughead blew on it lightly, the touch of his breath on her skin soothed and distracted, incredibly. He was so close that she wasn’t sure if the heat she felt was from their bodies combined or just her, losing all reasonable sense. He did this for several seconds before he applied the phenol again. This time, it did not sting as badly, the skin around the wound having gone slightly numb, but he blew on it anyway, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to ripple. 

Betty thought that if he didn’t stop, she was in danger of leaning over and kissing him.

He paused in his ministrations to look at his handiwork and seemed satisfied with his work. “What’s her name? Do you know?” 

How she managed to regain her senses, she didn’t know, but as he set the cotton swab aside, she replied. “Laura.”

“Laura,” he repeated, his blue eyes darting to a corner of the room. 

Betty followed his gaze and she saw, silhouetted against the window, was the dark visage of Laura’s spirit. She faded seconds later, perhaps realizing that Betty wasn’t alone. 

Jughead sighed and shot Betty a pointed stare. 

She knew exactly what he was thinking. “She followed me home. I couldn’t help it.”

“Of course you could help it. Charles taught us how to establish boundaries, you know.”

He wasn’t wrong. Betty could have easily told Laura to stay where she found Laura lurking around the coroner’s office, but she looked so lost and miserable that Betty couldn’t just tell her to wait there the whole time Betty was investigating her case. 

“It just seemed wrong,” Betty explained, all banter gone from her tone. “I imagined that all her life, she had to survive and fend for herself, with no one caring and offering her comfort. She earned every bit of coin she had, and then she was punished for it at every turn, until finally they killed her. I couldn’t, Jughead. It wasn’t right.”

He sighed, but he nodded, squeezing her arm. “Let me fetch Moose.”

When Jughead left, Laura reappeared again, a shade by the door. She was looking particularly ghastly tonight. “Have you learned anything new?”

Betty nodded. “I did. The other night, I met Malachi. It was he who strangled you in the alley. You didn’t kill yourself, Laura, just like you said.”

Laura touched her own throat. “I knew it. I am a survivor, Betty.”

Betty’s heart went out to her, from one survivor to another. “You are. Malachi was hired to kill you, and then it was made to look like a suicide. Everyone believed the lie, because it is easier to suppose that a mistress would take her own life rather than have an esteemed member of government murder her.”

She looked crestfallen by this news. “Governor Dooley? He had me murdered? Did he have enough of me, then? He didn’t have to dispose of me. I would have gone away quietly.”

This happened, sometimes. When she filled in the holes, the spirits remembered better.

“Not the Governor. It was his wife. One of the coachmen--not the governor’s, but one who was jealous of him--revealed that he suspected the governor’s wife was having an affair with Malachi, handsome devil that he is.” Betty could not help but chuckle about this. Whether it was true that the governor’s wife was having an affair was beside the point. She recalled the pouch that Malachi had given her that night he “paid” for her services. It wasn’t a particularly distinct one. It wasn’t going to tie the governor’s wife to the crime, but it was a distinctly upper class item. Betty would bet her life that it was the vessel for Malachi’s payment. 

Spectral tears began to slide down Laura’s cheeks, and as they did, her visage became less ghastly. Her mottled skin began to glow anew. The bruises and marks disappeared and her hair began to regain shine. Her soiled dress was washed clean of the back alley grime and she was back in her former glory. 

A bright light bloomed above her, casting a glow over her spirit. 

“Will you promise to make her pay for her crimes?” Laura asked, her eyes imploring. “I don’t expect justice, but I want her to _ pay _. Do you understand?”

Betty didn’t know how she could make the governor’s wife pay. 

“My flat,” Laura said, her eyes bright with the memories that were no doubt flooding her. “The floorboard under my bed.”

_ “Where _did you live, Laura?” Betty aked, desperately. They didn’t have a lot of time. The light above Laura was already taking her with it. “I need your address!”

“My old pimp--Tall Boy. He would know. Promise me, Betty.”

Betty would have to find a way, later. She nodded. “I do. I promise, Laura.”

“Thank you, Betty.” Her spirit gathered with the light, and gently, she faded as she crossed the realms, where her spirit could find rest. Where she belonged. 

By the time Jughead returned with Moose, there was no trace of the spirit left. 

Jughead might have noticed that the dread had lifted from the room, because he said, “She’s gone.”

“Yes. She crossed over, but I promised I would make her murderer pay.”

Moose seemed astonished but Jughead barely blinked at this declaration. He removed his coat as well, and while he was not as heavily armed as Jughead, he too had weapons strapped to his body, and he did not remove them like Jughead did. He grabbed a small box from one of the straps and laid it on the table before making his way way to the water basin. 

“Aye, well,” Moose finally said as he folded up the sleeves of his blouse and washed his hands. “I can think of better ways to spend my time, but that’s just me.”

Jughead began going through one of Charles’s cabinets. “You assume that Betty doesn’t enjoy this.”

She shot him a withering glance but didn’t deny it. 

Grinning, Jughead seemed to have found some brandy and began to pour some in a glass. She thought the liquor was for him, but he didn’t drink it, and when he sat on the other side of her, presumably to make room for Moose, he placed the glass gently in her hand. 

She began to push the glass back. “I don’t--”

“Hush. Trust me. You’ll want it.”

His voice was so soft and tender that she did not resist any further. 

“I’ve never been one for liquid courage, you know that, Jones,” Moose said in a somewhat scolding tone. “It thins the blood. I’d much rather give her chocolate--to prevent her fainting.”

Jughead waved his words away. “Betty is not a fainter and there is no chocolate. I’d rather relieve her pain. This will have to do.”

She bit her lip, her heart fluttering at both his belief in her mettle and his care. 

Moose scoffed, but didn’t argue. When Moose sat down to examine her wound, she got a closer look. He was certainly more massive than Jughead, if that served as any comparison at all. Jughead was never a particularly massive man to begin with. He was tall, but he was lanky, and that hadn’t changed, it seemed. Moose had broader, thicker shoulders, and his hands were large, like he could fell an ox with one punch. He wasn’t dressed like any other coachman, either. His boots and trousers looked closer to what Jughead was wearing--certainly not tailored from any Daemon Locked clothiers. 

Moose leaned over to get a closer look but he did not touch her at all. “Push back your hair for me, will you, lass?”

Betty did, slinging her hair over her other shoulder. She realized that unlike Jughead, Moose wasn’t just going to do it himself because it would have been inappropriate. 

Moose began to dig into Charles’s medical kit, pulling out some bottles, then he took the box he had laid on the table earlier and opened it. Inside were a set of instruments, three of which looked like scissors, one pair of tweezers, and some very fine thread. 

Moose instructed Jughead to wipe away any excess blood while he worked. 

She observed how Moose used the instruments. The one she thought were scissors weren’t that at all. They were forceps, and he was using both to hold the thread, at the end of which had an incredibly small and fine needle, possibly made of copper. 

The needle was so small that she barely felt it pierce her skin, but the drag of the thread did sting, and Betty grit her teeth as Moose worked. He was careful and meticulous, but it was painful, and Betty found herself taking that gulp of brandy. The burn of the liquor down her throat seemed distraction enough, but the warmth of it did spread through her body and loosen the sting of the suturing. 

Without thinking, she grabbed Jughead’s hand and gripped it, her fingers digging when the pain bit. When Jughead’s thumb began to rub the back of her hand, it served as an effective distraction. 

When Moose tied the final knot, he made a sound of triumph. “What do you think, eh? My best work. It will barely scar when it heals.”

Jughead gave it a cursory inspection before tapping Moose’s shoulder and getting up to put the brandy glass away. “Good work, Mason.”

Betty examined it as best she could from her vantage point. The sutures were neatly done and very small. Hardly any more blood had spilled and she believed it would heal nicely. Moose did have a talent for this. “You ought to be a physician. Thank you, Mr. Mason.”

“Much obliged, Miss Cooper. Please call me Moose. And yes, that is the plan. Earn a wage at the Guild and make enough to go to the Physician’s Academy in France, where all the Kin learn the latest in medicine. The Daemon Locked know shite about healing--sometimes their methods do more harm than good.” He handed one of the bottles from Charles’s kit to Jughead. “Your brother kept a good supply of the Kin compounds. Dress her wounds with that--keep infection away.”

Moose said his goodbyes, claiming he’ll be in his quarters if anyone else needed him. He saluted her, like he would if he had a hat on, and left.

“He’s a little overqualified for his job as a coachman,” she remarked. 

Jughead laughed softly, taking the seat Moose vacated as he began to clean the wound again before applying the antiseptic. “At the Guild, coachmen are a specialized breed. They have to be graduates of Peace Dealer Academies to be Guild Coachmen--he knows what I know, but he is, as you saw, also skilled in immediate medical care. Most importantly, he is a talented driver, and his Peace Dealer skills are used most frequently in warding spirits, pursuing targets, and exerting muscle--Moose isn’t called Moose for nothing.” 

He was touching her skin again, covering her wound with dressing and using some of the adhesive in Charles’s box to hold it in place. She was ever aware of their contact. 

“You trust him?” she asked.

“With my life.” He said as he gently pressed on her dressing and adhesive. “I knew him longer than my former partner. Moose and I were roommates at Stonewall. He likes Peace Dealing, but his true passion is medicine. I persuaded him to be my coachman so he can save up to go to medical academy.” 

She arched a questioning eyebrow. “Persuaded?”

He nodded. “The position, however specialized, is not glamorous, and most Peace Dealers don’t desire it, but coachmen never have to worry about room and board because the Guild shoulders that for them and they are paid well, though perhaps not as well as Peace Dealers, but without the additional living expenses, he keeps more of his pay. He likes the job now, especially after he realized how much of his salary he was able to save.”

It was oddly soothing to her--to hear him speak so plainly of their working class lives. In her Daemon Locked world, the men had to be businessmen and bankers, and speaking of their daily toils and practical concerns was considered horribly unrefined. 

She wished she could work like they do, but for now she was glad he was telling her all this, sharing with her his new histories and relationships. It drew them closer back together, she thought. 

He was done dressing her wounds, but he hadn’t quite moved away. He pushed her hair back again, somewhat unnecessarily, and a pleasant tingle ran down her spine.

“I smell lilac,” he said, nonsensically. “From your hair, I think.”

Something in her stomach fluttered. “It’s my soap.”

“Not quite the soap of a boy, is it?” 

She shrugged, shyly. “Just because I play a boy, I don’t have to be dirty like one.” 

He cast her a sardonic smirk. “Boys are not dirty. I always kept clean, you know.” 

She giggled quietly. She realized that they did not have to talk so loud. They were close enough to hear softly spoken words, and he was smiling, watching her in her mirth unabashedly. She liked how he seemed so open. Like old times. She wanted to know more. 

“You had a partner, you said?” 

The moment the question left her lips, she regretted it. Jughead’s shoulders visibly tensed and he moved away. He began to put away the medical materials, rearranging the unused materials in Charles’s box neatly. “Yes. Most Peace Dealers have one, but mine passed away in an accident. I haven’t had a new partner since.”

She bit her lip, her instinct for the change of mood immediate. “I am sorry he passed.” 

“I am, as well. Trevor was a good man, but he was reckless. It matters little now… Moose has been a more than adequate quasi-partner, and some Peace Dealers opt to have their coachmen act as such. I am not the only one. How does your shoulder fare, Betty?”

He went from warm to cold so quick that it was like getting splashed in the face with ice water, but she was resilient and this should not affect her equilibrium. 

“It fares well,” she replied, trying to act unaffected. “Sore, but the pain is bearable.”

He nodded putting the medical kit away. “And the pain will wane even more. We are Kin--we heal better. Quicker.”

That was true for their physical injuries. The Kin could get injured and they could be killed by deadly force, but Kin who survive injuries did so with a speed and resiliency improbable to the lost. Injuries that could cripple the Daemon Locked were easily recoverable for the Kin. Their bones, muscle, and skin knit more seamlessly and efficiently--faster still when the Kin summoned their Daemon to inhabit it. 

The Kin could be subjected to maladies. They fell ill on certain occasions. Colds did beset them. Disease could penetrate their bodies. But they recovered. Always. The Kin have never had to lose their friends and family to plagues and epidemics. 

But when injury struck deeper--when the shock of it reverberated through one’s mind and heart--there was no Kin advantage over that. There was no magical potion that the Kin had discovered to rid them of the nightmares of a traumatic experience. Horror, guilt, and despair could cripple a Kinman more effectively than a leg, neck, or back injury could. 

Betty resisted the urge to ask Jughead about his former partner. 

In the past, she would have without hesitation, but things were different now. While there were still bonds between them that remain unbroken, six years apart have created chasms that she needed permission to cross. 

“I suppose there is no point in telling you that it is too dangerous for you to go out on your investigations,” he said, sinking into Charles’s desk chair. 

She was aware that the distance between them now was considerable. “We’ve had this conversation.”

He nodded. “You can’t venture out on your own like you used to, Betty. Even the most seasoned Peace Dealer has a partner. I have Moose.”

She frowned. “And what would you have me do? Out here in Riverdale, the Kin are few and far between. Shall I go looking for one and train him or her, the way Charles trained you and I, to do this job?”

“Will you be going out tomorrow night? I can go with you--”

“And what shall I do when you leave for the city? Shall I stay home and wait for your heroic return?”

“Betty--”

“Learn how to knit perhaps, to occupy my time?” The look of understanding on his face was making her even more furious. The very idea that he expected her to sit and wait, like some damsel watching for the return of her knight, made her want to scream. 

He put up his hands to appeal for a moment to speak. “I won’t sleep a wink knowing you’ll be out there on your own, completely vulnerable to new dangers. Sabrina added a ward to your Mark that night, so that the others may not so easily find you, but make no mistake--that worked very well in the past because Charles’s wards protected you. There are ways around that ward on your skin, Betty. You will be found by the worst of them and if anything happens to you, I won’t recover.”

The way his words struck at the very core of her heart, her longing for him, only made her madder. “Oh, you are making this about you now?”

“Please _ listen. _If Mrs. Cooper would grant permission, I would like to have you with me when I travel back to the city. You need a partner, Betty, and until you can find a permanent one, I would have to do for the time being.”

This was most unexpected. “What? You want me to--” She struggled for a few heartbeats, but reason took hold once more. “If this is your attempt at babysitting--”

His sighed, exasperation clear in his tone. “It is _ nothing _ like that. I am completely aware of your autonomy, Betty. Once and for all, I _ do _not think of you as a child. If that was ever in my mind in the slightest, I was completely disabused of that notion when I watched you pretending to be a whore to seduce a murderous gang leader.”

Heat bloomed from her collar and she was caught unawares of the blatant implication that his realization of her maturity had come with her impression of someone else’s wanton sexuality. 

He took her silence to mean that she was finally listening. “But regardless of the fact that you are a grown and capable Peace Dealer, no one doing this job should, under any circumstance, do it alone.”

It took her several more seconds to absorb everything he was telling her at once, and when everything did sink in, she could feel a tremble of excitement ripple through her. “I would--I would like--” _ love _“--to go with you to the city. I would like that very much, Jughead.”

She could see the lines on his face smoothing over as the tension finally left his shoulders. “Good. And it would be an excellent way for us to make up for time lost--apart from all this _ administrative _nonsense…”

_ “When?” _she asked, her excitement bubbling to the surface. “When are we leaving?”

“In three days time. We’d have to purchase you a train ticket, and I’d imagine you’ll need some time to make other arrangements--”

“Hang arrangements. I can leave with you tomorrow if I have to.”

He was clearly astonished, but his smirk was tinged with affection. “Is Riverdale getting too small for you?”

Was it? 

When Charles died, it felt empty, like an expanding void that she could not escape. To beat back the chasm, she threw herself into work and the social obligations that came with living amongst the Locked. 

Jughead was offering yet another chance for her put distance between her and that chasm. “Perhaps. After all that’s happened, I would welcome some well-managed change.” 

“You and I, both.”

********************

Jughead felt the exhaustion in his bones, but his mind was alive with thought. 

He had dragged his old desk chair to the window and cracked it open. The cold breeze was nothing to his Kin constitution, but the silence of the countryside was slightly unnerving. 

Even out here in Riverdale, he grew up and lived amidst the noise of the Southside. It was like the city in that, except everyone had some connection to one another, by some shady dealing or unwanted association. It honed his survival instinct. He understood the meaning of sound. 

Living in the Cooper home had not rid him of the awareness of noise, or the lack of it. He learned to cope with it, but he still slept better with the hum of city life. 

He lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out and letting his thoughts take him, to everything that’s happened the last few days, and the probable future. 

Charles’s estate was no longer an immediate concern. Ownership of the house and all of Charles’s assets had been transferred over to him, and while he was yet to negotiate the holdings of the business, there was time yet to come to an agreement with Charles’s partners.

The house was in good hands with Alice at the helm, that he was sure of. 

None of the material matters were keeping him up at night. 

It was Betty that was his primary concern. 

Seeing her get taken that night was a rude way to be reminded of the reality of the danger she was in, now that she was fully exposed to the wider Kin world. She would be visited by beings and elementals that she never would have encountered before, and even the most seasoned Peace Dealer shouldn’t ever have to deal with that alone. 

But that wasn’t the only thing that nagged him. 

It was that sensation of belonging, of being _ bound _to Betty, right before she got picked off the street, that he remembered distinctly. It was so fleeting that he could shrug it off as nothing, but he had wondered the last six years if there wasn’t something more. Some old Kin magic at work. 

He snorted softly to himself. 

_ Daemon Other. _

It was entirely possible that he had mistaken a life-driven bond for some Kin-driven ambition. 

He and Betty had always had a bond. The first time he saw her as a child, the curiosity in her eyes had drawn his attention, and when Charles finally introduced them so that they could be taught in the ways of the Peace Dealer together, it seemed logical at first, and then natural, to get along. They enjoyed the same things and talked freely to one another. He preferred Betty’s company to anyone else and she was the only person who could make him laugh. 

Even six years apart, their bond was still strong. He felt it by the way they still laughed at the same things, by how they had an instinct for each other’s emotions, how they can soothe and comfort each other with a simple touch of the hand.

He wondered, too, whether her eyes had gotten greener over the years, or it was just the rouge she now wore on her lips.

So they were close even after all these years, and their closeness did not have to mean that they were Daemon Bound. 

There were signs, perhaps. But one can never really be sure until the Alpha Sigils worked for them and at the moment that was impossible, because Betty’s Daemon hadn’t even emerged as of yet. 

It just seemed like such a tantalizing thought--to be special, to be Daemon Bound when it was such a rarity in the world of the Kin.

Not impossible, nor extinct, but rare, and they were powerful. Only few were ever known to exist and all retired to the history books. If there were any Daemon Bound alive now, the Imperium would have registered them for monitoring. 

The Daemon Bound, as they were called, were Kin bonded by mind and soul. Their Daemons were the half of each other’s whole. Their fates were intertwined by their duality. They’d been called by many names throughout history: Fated, Destined, Soulmates, but it was always their Daemons that tied them together.

Legend spoke of a time when all Kin were Daemon Bound, but throughout time and space, the line of the Kin thinned the ties of fate. Now the Daemon Bound were few and far between.

According to the textbooks, the signs were: Synchronicity in their Marks’ appearance, hearing each other’s thoughts, moments of pure, unbridled connection…

The only thing he could be certain about was the first one. Their Daemons looked almost completely alike, except his was male and hers female. 

He’d wondered about it for years now, but the distance and wards between them had made his musings irrelevant. 

Even if it were true, that they were Daemon Bound, it wasn’t as if they couldn’t exist apart. They were completely capable of being individual Peace Dealers. It didn’t prevent them from being their best selves. 

_ Only, it does. _

Jughead took a puff of his cigarette and closed his eyes as he blew out the smoke. 

He wished things weren’t so complicated. He wished he didn’t keep second guessing himself. 

He had no clue if his incessant need to keep her safe, to keep her close, was some old instinct from his days as Charles’s pupil and younger brother, or something that came with the very adult responsibility of inheriting an estate, or if this was something else altogether. 

There was no point in worrying about it now. 

He’d asked her to go to New York with him. He would have to speak to Alice and he didn’t expect it to be an easy conversation, but Betty’s face had lit up so much at the suggestion of coming to New York with him that her disappointment at _ not _being able to go would likely haunt him to the end of his days. 

****************

_ “Absolutely not.” _Alice had said. “Not without a chaperone, and it simply can’t be me, as the house needs tending to on a daily basis.”

When Jughead delivered this news to Betty, she gave it a moment’s thought and replied, “So it wasn’t a no.”

After all these years, the Coopers’ mother-daughter language still baffled him. “I’m quite certain ‘absolutely not’ qualifies as a ‘no’.”

Betty’s fingers were drumming against the armrest of a sofa chair, her stocking-clad feet crossed at the ankles on an ottoman. “There are conditions.”

She was plotting, no doubt.

He observed her, arms crossed. 

As the older one in the room, he really should be telling her to listen to her mother, to be an obedient daughter, but he could never resist with Betty. She always had ideas. They were often bold and fearless, most times ingenious. He always liked to see what she would do. “Oh, is that what you call them? Conditions.” 

She quirked a grin, marking the page on her book before shutting it with a pop. “It shall be dealt with. In the meantime, I have a bit of time yet to fulfill my promise to Laura.”

“The whore.”

“The _ mistress. _That said, I do need to see her old pimp.”

“Betty.”

“I need a… partner.”

He sighed. 

She smirked and approached him, that glint of mischief forewarning him. Her fingers fiddled lightly with his cravat. “Do it for a lark.” Her expectant look was both infuriating and tempting. “And my safety? Are you not all about that?”

He dealt her a sardonic glare, but it did not lessen the sheen of her guileless smile. 

“Fine. But I’ll not stand for shenanigans, Betty. It would serve us both if we do away with angry mobs and bodily injury.”

“I’ll be like an angel,” she declared. 

He shook his head, but his sigh of resignation was consent enough for her. 

She clamped her hands together, her eyes bright with excitement. “This will be fun.”

He was slightly afraid that he might think so. 

*******************

She went to Sweet Pea’s first, bringing with her one of her lovely pink gowns. Clearly she would have to stop giving them to Sweet Pea at some point, or she _ would _run out, but she said she had a few other pink ones she could spare, yet. 

Dressed as Chic Smith, her ruined jacket from the night before mended and her blouse replaced, she really was quite convincing as a budding young criminal eager to impress the steadily successful Southside crime boss. 

Jughead waited outside the Emporium in one of Charles’s old coats, like a true hand-me-down. It masked the newness of his tailored suit. A lit cigarette hung from the side of his lip and his hat, drawn low on his face, helped make him less distinct.

He tried to be discreet, watching Betty through the windows. It wasn’t easy. The glass was smudged with age and the junk heaped behind it only allowed him slivers to see through. 

Betty looked small amidst the towering men inside. It made him a little nervous, and he had to keep reminding himself that she’d been doing this for years at this point, probably months of it by herself. 

It took several minutes, but when she finally emerged, she began walking down the street, and without losing step, Jughead followed behind her, neither of them speaking. It was only after they turned a corner that she whirled around and spoke to him. 

“I got the information,” she said, grinning. “Tall Boy’s at the docks, gambling. Sweet Pea said I couldn’t miss him--tall as a tree, he said.”

“And how long is Tall Boy going to be there, we think?”

“Long enough.’”

“Good. We’ll have Moose take us to the docks.” They walked another block down, rounding another corner where the carriage, even in the shadows, was transformed into an old, rusty contraption, easily dismissed as junk.

In the Vice Quarter, the carriage’s appearance would not have mattered, but in the Southside, where luxury is regarded with suspicion, or worse, intention, it was best to be inconspicuous when one was stationary.

He could see the wonder in Betty’s eyes, taking in the changed appearance of the carriage. 

She was thinking, trying to piece together how this was possible. As they got closer to the illusion, Moose’s Daemon, a green, reptilian creature, with the face and feet of an iguana, materialized on the roof and the carriage’s real appearance began to bleed through the disguise. 

“I’ve only read about this,” Betty said, breathless with awe. “How Daemons can alter perceptions of reality. I’ve never seen it. It is fascinating to watch.”

“The Locked don’t see the Daemon,” Jughead explained. “No matter how close they get. It is merely a more localized manifestation of the Other Side. Even the Kin might not notice it at first from afar, unless they have the equipment to perceive it, but there’s no deceiving the Kin up close. Not all Kin are as skilled at it as Moose, however. It takes a great degree of practice and skill to execute it this way.”

“It is my one claim to fame,” Moose drawled from the driver’s seat. 

Betty scoffed. “Nonsense. Your medical skills are just as commendable.”

Jughead could see Moose’s ears turning a bright red, but Moose, to his credit, graciously tipped his hat and said, “Thank you, Miss Cooper.”

It took all of Jughead’s willpower not to laugh and hoot as he opened the door for Betty. Moose was never so genteel with him, and he supposed that was to be expected. Moose wasn’t a particularly boastful person to begin with, but if Jughead had given him that same compliment, Moose would have come back with a, “Go on and stick your lobcock in a hole filled with alligators.” Because really, when they compliment one another, it was surely meant to be sarcastic. 

Jughead had barely offered his hand to assist when Betty hopped right into the carriage with fluid grace.

She was much more nimble in trousers, naturally. No lace or bustle, petticoat or heels, hat or parasol--less to think about altogether. It surprised him not that she liked being Chic, both for comfort and functionality.

_ Although she still wears a corset under that thing. _

He had wondered why on earth she would bother, at first, until he realized that a corset can work as well to keep things in as it does to shape one’s silhouette. With Betty, a corset was necessary to _ unshape _what was, essentially, shapely.

_ Dear God, Jughead. _

He sighed under his breath and tossed his cigarette to the ground before climbing in after her. 

As the carriage moved, he noted the slight change in her mood, how she looked pensive and almost sad. 

“Sometimes I think my Daemon will never make itself known to me,” she said, staring out the window. “And it isn’t a tragedy by any means, for Charles lived the remainder of his life without one, but am I still Kin? If I couldn’t use my Daemon, then I would just be Daemon Locked like everyone else.”

Jughead wasn’t learned in the intricacies of Daemon assignation and behavior--he wasn’t an Inker. It could be argued that questions like hers should be directed at people like Sabrina, whose lifelong occupations were about finding the Daemon within each of them and painting a picture of them on their bodies. 

He remembered hearing Sabrina caution that Betty’s Daemon may never emerge at all, with her getting it so late, but Charles never seemed to doubt Betty’s Daemon, and perhaps because of that, Jughead didn’t doubt it either.

He also believed that if they _ were _bound, then it was only a matter of time. The fates would not permit a Daemon being deprived of their Other. 

The universe didn’t make soulmates, have them meet, and then keep them apart, did it? It seemed like a preposterous notion. 

He conveniently ignored the tiny voice in his head that argued that it was still possible that Betty wasn’t his Other. That theory could be explored at another time. 

“You won’t be Daemon Locked,” he said with clear conviction. “You got your Mark years late. It will emerge when it’s ready.”

“I always wondered about that. About why Charles waited for so long. I used to ask him why, but all he kept saying was that he was afraid the Kin would find me too soon, and that he wanted me to be ready before they did.” She fished out the pocket watch that brought them back together. “He never spoke of his excommunication to me, or why he thought it so ominous if the Kin knew about me. He just said he didn’t agree with their ways and they didn’t like him disagreeing with them. That if they found me--and he said it was only a matter of time, he wanted me to fully understand how the Imperium, in all its power, wasn’t always right.”

Jughead had wondered about those same things, living with the Kin where the Imperium presence loomed large and all-consuming. 

They didn’t seem like a bad lot. They had their flaws and politics, just like any other society. They seemed far more forward thinking in many things, still antiquated in others, but Jughead preferred the ways of the Kin to the Locked, ten-fold. 

Betty would thrive in Kin society. Most Peace Dealers were still _ men, _ but there have been a handful of women Peace Dealers in the Guild. Not _ now, _but she wouldn’t be the first in history. 

“Did he tell you more?” she asked. “He always told you more…”

He noted the hurt in her tone and he couldn’t help himself, reaching for her hand to soothe her. “Charles didn’t keep things like that from you. He didn’t discuss you with me as if we conspired to manage you, Betty. It was never like that. He always told me to take care of you, make sure you were safe, but we didn’t keep things from you. What I know of you is what you know. I myself tried to find answers about Charles’s excommunication from the Guild, but all records were sealed. It was as if Charles never existed with the Kin. Even then, I hardly think it has to do with your Daemon’s readiness to make itself known.”

She sighed, her hand squeezing back. “If I never know my Daemon, I’d be half of a whole. _ Less. _”

His jaw tightened and he determined that she must never feel this way. “You are never less. Our Daemons do not make us who we are. We are not made of them. They aren’t even really sentient, or we’d constantly be having conversations with them in our heads. They are only ever as sentient as we want them to be, as mirrors within--they are excellent for self-reflection, and they are the most powerful tool we have as Kin, but they are not us. When you start thinking that they define us, that’s when you get the Daemon Wraiths and Wraith Lords. At the very least, know that there are people in this realm that think the world of you, whether or not you have a Daemon to summon.”

Her grateful smile wrung his heart. She shouldn’t have to be grateful about being told she mattered, but when her smile turned mischievous, he knew he had succeeded in making her feel better. 

“‘People in this realm’ would be--oh,” she pretended to think on it. “You. I’m afraid that’s just you.”

He scoffed and she laughed.

It was then the carriage came to a halt and Moose told them they were at the docks. 

***************************

The docks were relatively more quiet than the teeming streets of the Southside. Most of the activity was centered around the gambling shacks further inland. There, small clusters of people sat around the light of a lamp and gambled with dice and cards. In the far end of the dock, there was a prize fight, and it was the noisiest group, but it still did not overpower the general silence. 

Betty, with Jughead beside her in his smart clothes, gave his appearance a critical look.

Handsome though she thought he was, this was not the sort of place a well-kempt man like him should be. She remembered a time when he wasn’t so buttoned up, when his clothes were ill-fitting and worn. She didn’t wish his old life upon him, but at this very hour, she needed his rougher self to re-emerge. 

“You look like dirt bounces right off your skin,” she remarked.

His brow arched as he tossed his top hat back in the car. “That did not sound like a compliment.” 

She frowned. “It wasn’t. I’m afraid you will stand out. I’m afraid you’ll get robbed and we’d have to make a scene. You’re too pretty for the docks.”

Jughead’s sardonic grin was maddening. “I’ve never been called pretty by a lady before.”

She shot him a glare. “Who are you calling a lady?”

His soft chuckle was followed by a shake of his head. “You’re good at playing the part of Chic, but you don’t exactly fit in this place, either. You lack scurvy, for one.”

“The trick isn’t to blend, it’s to seem un-threatening. I lack mass and I look soft--that’s good enough for these sailors. You’re tall. And your healthy glow certainly makes up for your lankiness--”

He barked a laugh. “Healthy glow? How dare you? These eyebags are legendary, I’ll have you know.”

His amusement was clear, but she was serious. “You won’t pass, Jughead.” 

He smirked and shrugged off his coat, scarf, and hat, throwing all of them back into the carriage. He ruffled his pristinely combed hair, loosened his blouse from his trousers, and unbuttoned his cuffs. “You forget that once, my father ruled these streets as the reigning Serpent King. Your fellow at the pawnshop--”

“He is _ not _my fellow.”

“--probably used to answer to him, and would have eventually answered to _ me _if Charles hadn’t plucked me out of that life and showed me a better way.” He began folding up his sleeves and undoing the buttons of his shirt. Betty thanked the stars that he stopped at two. His weapons holsters began to loosen as he unbuckled them, and when they fell away, he took one of the firearms and tucked it into the back of his pants, where he could hide it beneath his blouse. 

Even under the dim lighting, Betty could see the metal-braced arm and his Mark peeking out of the base of his nape. She wondered again at the similarity of it with hers. Did it mean anything or nothing? 

She was immediately distracted from her own thoughts when she took in Jughead’s overall appearance. 

With Jughead so unfettered, he still didn’t look like a street urchin, but he had shed all traces of the gentleman he first appeared to be.

He held his arms out. “Better?”

The truth was that all this only served to make him look more tempting, but that was just her. She affected a neutral expression. “Now you look like a penniless poet.” 

“That should take care of any fool ideas about robbing me.”

She scoffed. “Now the sailors are just likely to beat you for a lark.”

He waved her thinly veiled insult away. “They’ll take one look at you and change their minds.”

She rolled her eyes but failed to stifle her grin. 

To Jughead’s credit, he valiantly pretended he hadn’t just won that last round of words. “And how do you propose finding Tall Boy?” 

“By watching out for a tall person.” 

His deadpan expression had her laughing softly. Jughead never did suffer fools. 

“There’s plenty of alcohol to loosen lips in those gambling shacks,” Betty added. “We work the crowd well enough and we can ask about Tall Boy. He’ll be well-known in these parts, offering up his product to sailors.”

He nodded, satisfied by this plan. He reached into the carriage and pulled out another gun. “You need one of these.”

She eyed it briefly. She generally never needed a gun. She knew how to use several, with great skill, because Charles had made sure she was competent in all manner of weaponry, but bullets cost money and she didn’t want to be so lavish, especially after Charles died. Also, it seemed so unnecessarily fatal, when most of the people she encountered in the Southside couldn’t afford to carry such a weapon. She could easily handle their blunt force objects and knives without killing them.

But this time, in a dock full of sailors, she thought it prudent to accept his offer. Besides, the Guild was paying for the bullets. She took the gun, checked its chamber, and tucked it into the back of her pants, just like Jughead did. 

He nodded. “Lead the way.”

She did, heading for the first shack where voices rang out rowdily over a game of dice. 

Betty shouldered her way through the crowd, scanning the line of heads for anyone who might be particularly tall. 

She could see Jughead getting cursory glances from the others, probably assessing if they could get him to cough up whatever earnings he made selling a painting or some ill-written play. 

Jughead threw some money in the game and the others gave him approving looks before minding their own business. 

Pulling her gaze from him, she began to entrench herself in the game, throwing a bit of money into the pot and cheering with the rest of the crowd. 

Soon enough, Jughead addressed her from across the table as a fellow bettor and they started to work the crowd together. Their combined miseries as losers in the game managed to get the crowd rooting for them both two more rounds later and when she felt supportive pats on her shoulder, she knew they had won the crowd. She worked the conversation towards the pimp, Tall Boy and where they might have seen him.

Sailors surrounding her, amused no doubt by his presumably carnal pursuits, laughed and spoke candidly about Chic’s body parts that wanted to be _ in _ a lady’s body parts. She wondered, then if she ought to be mortified by these attentions, or whether she should laugh with all of them unabashed. 

Jughead’s wide eyed glare prompted her to laugh with them, though only halfway succeeding, because she truly was embarrassed by the crass and loud mentions of lady parts and what everyone wanted to do with them--violently in some cases.

It was determined that Tall Boy had been seen walking towards the prize fights at the end of the docks, recently enough. 

“He’ll likely still be there. It’s the end of the week. He’ll be betting on the fights as much as working,” said an accommodating sailor.

She thanked the stranger jovially and left the shack amidst loud, unapologetically crass sexual advice. Jughead caught up with her moments later.

“Sailors,” she muttered. She refused to complain with any further detail.

He took out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, lighting it as he spoke. “I’m glad you think it’s just them.”

“I don’t. And are you not even going to ask me if I mind you smoking?”

“Why should I? By your own admission, you aren’t a lady.”

She was surprised to note that she wasn’t offended by that at all. “You were quite impressive in the gambling den. Absolutely no one was suspicious that we were working together.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Is it any wonder that I knew how to fit in? Might I remind you that this was closer to my former life than yours will ever be.”

He was right, of course, but he always did seem surprised by her good opinion of him. “I always knew you to be a gentleman, Jughead, no matter how rough you were. It didn’t matter what you were wearing or what you were saying--you were always gentle with me.”

He said nothing at first, but with the cigarette hanging from his mouth, he grinned lopsidedly. “I was always my best with you, Betty.”

She didn’t quite know if she should consider that a compliment or the opposite of that. She wanted to inspire, but she wanted his true self, too, and she knew from life that meant knowing both the light in their hearts and the darkness of their souls.

As they walked through the dim boardwalks of the dock, she could see parts of his mark glowing. 

“Would mine be glowing like that?” she asked him. “My mark, I mean?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. A scarf was wrapped around her neck, so he couldn’t see her mark, but he nodded without hesitation. “It would. When you need to be invisible in the dark, it will not glow. Your marks will respond to what you need.”

“The one on my arm never did.”

“That’s not a Mark. That’s a ward.”

She glanced briefly at her arm, knowing that the tattoo existed under the fabric of her shirt and coat. She had taken careful note of his words. “You can have more than one Mark?”

“So to speak. You can earn enhancements for your Daemon. It makes one’s Daemon more effective.”

“I wish I could meet my Daemon already,” she said quietly. “I feel… inadequate.”

“Don’t. That is a pointless emotion.”

Betty wondered if he had truly learned to classify emotions so--to label them pointless and useful, and whether he knew how to channel them in that manner.

They made their way to the end of the docks where the fighting was. Shirtless men and men in their undershirts were scattered around the makeshift arena. There were fighters waiting their turn and others already beaten and bloody. She wondered momentarily if Jughead would be so bold as to jump into the ring, just as a means to get into the crowd. 

Her thoughts must have been transparent on her face, because he shot her a look and said, “Don’t even think it.”

She tried to look innocent. “I’ve said nothing!”

He shook his head. “You are better trained than them, but you don’t want that kind of attention here, trust me.”

She paused, surprised, and then impressed, that he would think her completely capable of throwing her own hat in the ring for a round. 

“Although,” he continued, “these blokes are scrappy. Scrappier than you, I’d wager.”

“Oh, you’d wager?”

He glared at her, sensing the challenge in her tone. “Come on. Let’s see if we can scout the crowd.” He led this time, and she followed closely behind him, scanning the audience for a towering man. 

She surveyed the crowd, contemplating the notion of yelling fire just to get everyone on their feet. 

“If you’re thinking of yelling fire,” Jughead said behind her, “I think that’s a splendid idea.”

“How did you--”

“I suppose I know you more than we both realize, even after all these years.” He was taking stock of the enclosed space. “But we can’t yell fire when there isn’t one.”

She frowned, speaking without turning to face him. “If we set something on fire, we can burn this whole dock to the ground.”

“The appearance of fire will do. Stay here, stay alert, and keep your eyes open.”

He disappeared into the crowd, going deeper into the enclosed area.

She didn’t have a chance to complain, so she waited and watched, wishing that Jughead had taken another second to tell her his plan, but it became clear in soon enough when smoke began to billow out from within. 

No one had to yell fire as everyone began to pour out into the docks without prompting. She imagined the losing bettors filed out faster than the winning ones. And sure enough, a tall man with long dirty-blonde hair and a scruffy beard stood out from the crowd. 

Betty kept her eyes firmly on him, discreetly following him as he cleared out of the smoke-filled area like everyone else. 

Before Betty could turn around to look for Jughead, he was coming up behind her, asking her if she’d seen Tall Boy. 

“I think so,” she said, indicating the towering figure of a man moving away from the shack. 

Betty and Jughead moved together, hastening to intercept him. 

As he reached the inner docks, where the crowd was thinnest, he looked up from his pocket notepad and spotted them coming. 

Tall Boy gave Betty a curious look, but as his eyes fell upon Jughead, an expression of alarm exploded from his face and he immediately turned and bolted.

“What in the world--” Betty hissed, springing to a run and going right after him. He was fast, but she was up for the sprint, her feet pounding on the boards beneath her. She didn’t know if Jughead was following right behind her, but she felt that he wasn’t far behind. 

She kept her eyes on Tall Boy, and as he wove through the docks, he grabbed ahold of anything he could as he went, knocking it down behind him to hinder her path. 

Betty was not deterred. She climbed fallen crates with the grace and agility that her brother told her was her best talent. She leap frogged over the obstacles Tall Boy left at his wake, and when he climbed a fence she saw him falter. She gained ground but he was over before she got to him. She climbed and leapt over that fence much faster than he did and she saw that he wasn’t that far off. She picked up the cover of a trash bin nearby, threw it like a disk, and caught him right at the back of the head.

He spilled on the ground, crying out and clutching the back of his head. The lid hadn’t been that solid, so he wouldn’t be knocked out, but he would have a nice lump.

“Nice shot!” Jughead suddenly said behind her. He had kept up, which she was glad for, but all that jumping, dodging, and running had put her in a somewhat foul mood.

She strode quickly over to Tall Boy. He was groaning and in obvious pain, but she felt no sympathy.

She grabbed his wrist and planted a foot on his spine, twisting his arm behind him and pushing it in an awkward angle. He was a large man, and if he had better control of his faculties, it would take a lot for her subdue him. Certainly at any moment, if he managed any manner of leverage, he could buck her off him and possibly injure her, but she had a good angle at the moment.

She spoke above his cries of pain. “Why were you running away, Tall Boy?” she asked. “I just wanted to speak to you. Now I think you’re guilty of something.” She twisted his arm even more. 

He howled in pain. “What do you want from me?” 

“I just needed to know where Laura lives,” she said, calmly. “You know--tall lady, brown hair, very attractive… kept woman.”

“Is that all, lad? Let me up and--” he screamed again as Betty cut off his lie with a bit of pressure.

“Oh, you’ve lost any sort of leverage when you ran away.” 

Jughead lit another cigarette. “Why _ did _you run away, Tall Boy?”

_ “You,” _Tall Boy cried. “You’re FP’s boy! You’ve come back to kill me, I know! I can pay him what I owe him, I swear it. You don’t have to kill me for it. You Marked lot are all the same--”

“Marked lot? What do you know of it?”

Tall Boy twisted on the ground and his strength did overcome her grip and her weight. He bucked her off him, kicking her right on her solar plexus. It felt like a stone had been jammed against her body, even with her corset protecting her. The impact of his foot was amazingly intense. 

She felt the air getting forced out of her just as pain blossomed from where his foot connected. She gasped and stumbled backwards, doubling over and heaving to get her breath back. She cursed under her breath, her street drawl coming far too naturally than her upbringing permitted. Her eyes felt hot with tears and she tried desperately to get her breathing back into its normal rhythm, but she grabbed hold of his wrist again, this time putting her hips into it, and twisted his arm harder. A tendon popped and Tall Boy screamed this time, sobbing momentarily at the pressure. 

“Care to do that again?” Betty rasped, tightening the twist and pressing her knee to his spine.

“No! Please, my arm!” 

Betty could feel her ribcage throbbing and she eyed Tall Boy’s boot. It was not the boots she so often saw among the Riverdale clothiers. His looked closer to what Jughead and Moose wore. Not quite as equipped as theirs, but it was Kin-made, reinforced by steel. It was no wonder his kick had her bowled over and breathless. 

“Alright there?” Jughead asked from the side. She detected that hint of concern, that tension in the air that told her he wanted to jump in and help her, but he didn’t, and she appreciated it, but her ribs hurt. 

She bit her lip, resisting the urge to admit the need for help, but it appeared she didn’t need to tell him that. 

Jughead, cigarette still between his lips, laid his foot Tall Boy’s neck. “Let him go, Betts.” 

She did, stepping aside to let Jughead take his turn while she let herself recover from the blow. 

As she stood to the side, breathing through the soreness, Jughead pulled out his firearm and aimed it to the back of Tall Boy’s head. The sound of Jughead cocking his gun was probably loud so close to Tall Boy’s ear.

“I urge you to keep still, Tall Boy,” said Jughead, his polite request bellied by the threat in his tone. “What do you mean by marked lot?”

“I can see ‘em,” said Tall Boy, his face pressed to the ground. “Those tattoos of yours that you do magic with!”

She looked at Jughead questioningly and saw that he was frowning and pensive. 

“He’s a Seer.,” Jughead said. “He’s Daemon Locked, but he can see our marks. Some of them can even see our Daemons. Can you see spirits, Tall Boy?”

“I can see ‘em all,” Tall Boy replied. “I can spot your lot in a crowd, easy, all tattooed up the way you are. Your father, FP, wasn’t shy about scaring the rest of us with it. Said he could send us to _ hell.” _

She noted the tightening of Jughead’s jaw and knew that being recognized as FP’s son wasn’t all that extraordinary. Charles had mentioned that Jughead got all of FP’s looks. She hadn’t realized then that perhaps it was more than just a casual remark. Charles got most of his features from Alice, which meant that there was hardly anything Charles got from his father.

“We’ll talk about all that at another time.” She crouched down on the ground to be more on level with him. Her ribs pinched but she ignored it. “You haven’t answered my question about Laura.”

“She lives up in Hastings street--those newer buildings for them Vice Quarter business owners. They makin’ good money up there…”

“I have it on good authority,” Betty began in a frighteningly quiet tone, “that the ‘light’ is for good people. Pimps like you who abuse their girls… go someplace else.”

Tall Boy stared up at her without a word, but he paled visibly and swallowed. 

Satisfied that she had put some fear in him, she stood to full height. “We can let him go now.” 

Jughead laughed, softly, removing his foot from Tall Boy’s neck and putting his gun away. 

Tall Boy scrambled to his feet and dealt Jughead a scornful look. 

“Remember that I let you live,” Jughead told him. 

The fierce scowl that twisted Tall Boy’s face committed to Betty’s memory. On any other day, he was not a man to be trifled with. 

Finally, Tall Boy turned and left, hurrying down the alleyway and disappearing around the corner. 

“Were you going to kill him?” Betty asked, surprising even herself at her casual tone. 

Jughead scoffed, pausing just a second too long. “Of course not. Father never mentioned Tall Boy and even if he did, I never would have killed him for money. I’d like to think my convictions ran deeper than that.”

Betty did note the distinction of killing for money and killing for something else. Having immersed herself in Southside life the last few years, she understood the rules people lived by in its streets. “Do you really think he could see our marks?”

Jughead nodded. “Seers exist. We as Kin do not operate in a vacuum. We have people among the Locked, exerting influence where we might need them, usually in law enforcement and government leadership. We have brought Locked criminals to their constabulary. With enough proof, they can get convicted.”

Betty briefly wondered if she could get Governor Dooley’s wife arrested, but she had to remind herself that Laura did not need her to be brought to justice. She needed Mrs. Dooley to pay, and that was a different matter. “I don’t need the governor’s wife convicted. There is another way.”

“Is there? And what might that be?”

Betty shrugged one shoulder carefully, her ribs still hurting for her to do much else. “I’ve yet to determine that, but I will find the answers. I always do.”

*****************

“Your ribs are nagging you,” Jughead said as they sat in the carriage.

The gentle rocking of the coach was sending small waves of pain through her body, but she wasn’t quite ready to admit that. “Excuse me?”

“Your ribs. Let me see.”

Warmth bloomed from her collar. “I realize that I make a convincing boy, but I assure you, I have lady parts. I am not about to show them to you!”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Betty,” Jughead said, sternly. “It is only me.”

She refrained from explaining to him that was the very reason she had objections to the notion. “You realize that I must undo my corset--”

“That is usually the logical process, yes.”

“--while you bear witness!” 

Jughead rolled his eyes. “Daemon Locked rules of etiquette. The Kin are not so limited by such rules. It is nothing I have not seen before.”

She pursed her lips in growing outrage. “I care not if you’ve been in a parade of naked women. You have not seen _ me _naked and that makes all the difference in the world.”

“I am not asking you to strip naked,” Jughead said, pertly. “I just need to see where he kicked you. Would you be more comfortable if Moose looked at it?”

“No. I would rather not at all.”

He sighed but fell back on his seat. “I won’t compel you, and it is likely your corset is helping with the pain, but once you remove that, the pain will set in.”

She shot him a glare. “Let us get to Laura’s apartment, first. I will find what I need, and then we can go home, where I will reconsider your offer to examine my injuries.”

“If you broke something or cracked something--”

“It can wait until later.”

He sighed and let the argument fade into the steady sound of the horses’ cadence outside.

The thought of having to bear this discomfort for very long made her faint with anxiety, but she had a job to do just yet. 

Laura told her there was something beneath the floorboard, under her bed. That was where she would look. 

When they arrived at the Vice Quarter’s most distinguished apartelle, Jughead put himself back together and distracted the establishment’s doorman and concierge as Betty made her way into Laura’s flat. 

It was a modestly sized place, well furnished, and very clean, with pieces of Laura making itself known in the bold decor, the books lining the shelves, the quaint paintings, and the vegetables and flowers rotting in their respective baskets. The silence blanketed Betty in melancholy. 

Laura did not deserve her fate. 

Betty went straight to Laura’s bedroom, getting on her hands and knees. Her ribs did protest, but she bit her lip and forged ahead, knocking on panels to find one that may be loose from its fittings. 

It didn’t take long. She found the loose board and with her pocket knife, wedged the panel off. Within the cavern she spied a lovely tin box, flowers artfully painted on its body. She brought it into the light, lifting the lid and quickly sifting through the folded documents. 

A quick glance told Betty everything she needed to know. The ownership of the flat was in Governor Dooley’s name, and even if Laura’s name was left out of the official documents, the apartelle and its surrounding community offered a plethora of witnesses, from the name on the pigeonhole at the lobby, to the doorman downstairs, to the nearby grocer and florist, the artist she spied down the street, and perhaps even the antique dealer the next block over.

This would be enough to make Governor Dooley’s wife pay. 

She secured the entire box in her possession and headed back to the coach. When Jughead saw her, he bid the doorman goodbye. 

As he joined her in the carriage, he asked, “Got what you came here for?”

She nodded. “Yes. I have everything I need.”

**************

They were back in Charles’s study in due time, and Betty was once more on the couch, only now she was laid out, the pain in her ribs uncomfortable, at best. She was still in Chic’s clothes, but she had removed her corset. Her breasts remained bound behind some linens, but it was strange to be in clothes _ not _her nightgown and have no corset beneath it. She felt naked, even with her modesty so clearly preserved. 

Jughead pulled the ottoman and situated it beside her on the couch. He looked at her askance, clearly amused.

“You find this funny?” she snapped.

“Not nearly as much as you think. Your hair’s come undone. It ruins the entire Chic effect.”

She had barely noticed. Her braided blonde hair was now draped over her shoulder in complete disarray. Her hat was on the table, probably deposited there by Jughead. 

She sighed. “I wish I could cut my hair short.”

“And cause a scandal?” he teased.

“Don’t tempt me.”

He chuckled, setting aside his own hat and gloves. She watched his hands, liking the nimbleness of his fingers. “I’m sure you’ve contemplated it multiple times. Scandal aside, I’d imagine it would make the business of playing Chic easier.” 

She nodded. “Everytime I walk into Sweet Pea’s emporium, I am terrified that someone would snatch my hat off and out me as a woman. I believe I can fight my way out, but I don’t relish the danger of trying.”

“Sweet Pea is a dangerous man for anyone.”

She didn’t argue the point. “I needed him to buy my things so I can do what I do without driving mother and I into poverty.”

He paused for a few heartbeats. “You didn’t have to Peace Deal, Betty.”

She scoffed, softly. “You know better than that, Jughead. What we do--it’s a calling. I could no more give it up than I can breathing. It’s true--from a practical standpoint, I might have saved myself the trouble if I had just resigned myself to our situations and married like a proper lady…”

Jughead smirked. “Which you aren’t.”

She smirked right back. “A lady or proper?”

“It’s perfectly alright to be a lady, you know. I think you might admire the best ladies I know.”

She sighed and threw an arm over her tired eyes. “I’d be hard pressed to believe you. People expect things of ladies, of which I cannot possibly live up to. Balls, gowns, art, embroidery, musical instruments--I can pretend, just like I pretend to be Chic, but what a life that would be--to be in someone else’s skin all of the time. I may go mad.”

“My sister is a lady. And she’s an inventor.” 

“So you’ve said.” Betty would like to meet Jellybean, if everything Jughead has said about her was true. 

“She researches alternate sources of energy, so that we can use portable devices that don’t have to be tethered to a generator. That’s one of her projects, at least. She has many of them.” He shrugged. “She doesn’t like balls, either. She abhors them. She calls it a waste of potential energy.”

“She sounds like a fascinating woman.”

“You’ll meet her soon enough.” He gestured towards her, indicating the area of her injury. He was asking permission, and having resolved that she would rather it be Jughead, as opposed to Moose, or worse, Alice, she gave her permission for him to examine her. 

Gingerly, he lifted her shirt, just enough for him to see her ribs. 

He seemed intent on her injuries. “Badly bruised. I’ll wager you cracked something. It will heal by itself, and I can give you something to dull the pain and bring down the swelling in the meantime, but for your sake, I would make excuses about doing away with the corset for the next few days.”

She cursed under her breath. There was work yet to be done and she couldn’t do it without being properly dressed. 

“For your mouth I recommend soap,” he said. 

She frowned at him. “Oh, please. As if you’ve never.” She tugged her shirt down.

He chuckled. “I like a good swear on occasion, I admit.”

The door to the office opened and Moose walked in with a palm-sized canister and a bottle of what looked round pellets. He handed the canister and bottle to Jughead while shooting him a look of reproach.

“This is not my fault, you know,” Jughead told him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Moose cast him a withering look before turning his attention back to Betty. “It would be nice to see you in perfect health for once, Ms. Cooper.”

“One could hope,” she said. 

He left the room and Jughead began to uncap the canister. “Lift your shirt up again.”

She did, her cheeks still burning at the notion of showing him so much skin. He scooped a substance from the canister. It had thick consistency, and gently, Jughead rubbed it on her bruise. It felt immediately cool, and then soothing.

“It’s camphor, with lavender and St. John’s wort. It will help relieve the pain.”

In spite of her embarrassment, she could not help but give a sigh of relief. “That helps.”

He nodded. “And if it gets worse, you can take one of these pills. It will knock you unconscious, honestly, but it will speed up your recovery, and you heal fast enough as Kin.”

She closed her eyes, letting his light touch ease her pain. “I should have kicked Tall Boy right back.”

“He was wearing a steel boot--Guild issued. Don’t quite know where he got it, but our clothing has been known to get handed down to Seers like him. If you kicked him in the ribs, your blow would not have hurt him as much. Now if you kicked him where it could hurt a man the most…”

“Stop!” she gasped. “It is agony to laugh!”

Jughead grinned. “I am glad to know you have not lost your sense of humor.”

“My sense of humor is durable for the most part.”

“I see that. And all this trouble for what? Laura’s spirit? It’s a good thing she moved on, too. There was a real danger of corruption there, Betty. You can’t bring spirits home.”

Betty touched her finger to her chin. “Hmm, have we not had this conversation before? Have we not established that I--wonder of wonders--know what I am doing?” 

He huffed, pulling her shirt back down and using his handkerchief to wipe his fingers of any excess compound. “There is absolutely no way we can determine what can push these spirits to corruption. They can be perfectly fine one day then completely lose themselves the next without provocation. Some exhibit symptoms, some do not. And sometimes, we only know they were symptoms in the first place after they’ve gone and hurt the living. We only know that terrible people corrupt the fastest. The worst of the living--we prioritize their collection. And when they run--and they almost always do--Peace Dealers are dispatched in groups. This is why we don’t make friends with random spirits. The worst will lie to you as badly in death as they did in life. Unless you get the full brief from the Reapers, you won’t know who they were, alive. The Reapers have their profiling down to a science, so their briefs are highly reliable.”

“Ghosts hardly know anything about themselves at the beginning,” Betty said.

“Not so much in the first 48 hours, but corrupted spirits learn quickly how to affect the living. They become more dangerous to the Locked the longer they are uncaught. The Locked call it a Haunting, and when spirits start haunting the Locked, the first thing they usually learn to manifest are sounds. Phantom footsteps, tapping on walls, disembodied voices--it should never get to that point, because it’s only a matter of time before they learn to to knock objects down, that’s when they begin to get very dangerous. They can escalate from pushing doors open to pushing objects onto your head to causing you to fall down the stairs.”

Betty recalled Laura moving a coin, and maybe she was on the verge of corruption, but she refrained from telling Jughead about that. There were many things she knew of spirits, how they behaved and the theories about their corruption, but there was little she knew of how Guilded Peace Dealers operate, and that she wanted to know more of. 

“There have been spirits known to reach into our bodies--disrupting our blood flow, putting pressure on our hearts and lungs, cause us to choke, make us sick of body or sick of mind…”

“And there’s possession, too. Nasty business, that.”

“That’s a full-blown catastrophe,” he said, seriously. “It should never get to that point.”

She knew all this from her studies, but she was yet to encounter true hauntings in Riverdale, where the spirits began to manifest themselves to the Locked. Riverdale was perhaps as Jughead said--a small town.

“Have you encountered all such things?” she asked. “In the city?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I have. The city is vast and filled with wonders, but there are many, many lost souls--from the dead and the living, both.” 

That was a curious turn of phrase. “Do you think I’d like it in the city?”

“Among the Kin? I think so.”

“Do you think it will like me?” 

His smile was the softest she’d ever seen, and she realized that he was idly twirling a lock of her hair between his fingers. “Without a doubt.”

  
  
  



	5. Meeting of the Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I encourage you all to take a moment and read my tumblr post [_Credit and Inspiration_](https://writeradamanteve.tumblr.com/post/189719462557/credit-and-inspiration). It is a long post, but I think you should all read it. 
> 
> It talks about the published work [_Disenchanted & Co._](https://www.amazon.com/Disenchanted-Co-Lynn-Viehl-ebook/dp/B00DPM7T5O/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=disenchanted+%26+co.&qid=1577747121&sr=8-2) by Lynn Viehl, and about how _that_ work did **_not_** inspire this story, but it is also true that Viehl's work and mine exists at the same time. I have not read her story, but please feel free to check her story out. 
> 
> Also, Philip Pullman's Daemons and mine are the same only in name, but I could honestly say that the seed of inspiration for _my_ Daemons were planted by Pullman.

Betty had dreams of Jughead. 

She’d had them in the past, and it was never the kind of dream that she would be embarrassed to tell anyone about. Her dreams of Jughead were visions of companionship, trust, sometimes adventure, and from her--longing. The latter was always the most emotional ones, where she would see him from a distance, call his name, and he wouldn’t hear her. Or he would be leaving on a train and she could do nothing but watch him go. 

That last bit was perhaps more a memory than a vision, she had surmised. 

The closest she and Jughead had ever come to intimacy in these dreams was when they held hands, and something so deeply warm and loving would overcome her. In these dreams, Jughead would be gazing so intently at her that she was half convinced that he loved her, too. 

Dreams with Jughead always left her more emotionally exhausted waking from them. 

The latest dream was like nothing she’d had of him before. 

In this dream, she was _ kissing _ him, and since she’d never kissed _ anyone, _she could only suppose that her imagination was wildly off-kilter. But however wrong the mechanics of it was, she felt warm in the most secret places inside of her, and when she found that she was naked as she kissed him, she didn’t feel quite as bothered as she probably should have been. 

It was only after they separated in this dream that she realized she was not herself. The skin of her arms had turned a luminescent blue, and as she moved her shoulders, she saw that she had wings. 

Jughead was smiling at her, clearly unbothered by her inhuman appearance, and then he said her name. 

“Sabathiel.”

********************

Jughead prided himself on his inclination to observe. 

He was entirely aware of his social shortcomings--his inability, or rather refusal to engage in pointless smalltalk and his marked lack of desire to please strangers, idiots, and authorities. He never considered it his obligation to make awkward situations easier and smiling in a group setting was purely optional. 

In lieu of engaging in contrived conversation, he preferred to watch, absorb, and analyse. It was how he coped at gatherings and parties. 

There was a time when his means of coping at such well-mannered inanities fell upon Betty. Her familiar presence in such unfamiliar surroundings assured him of interesting conversation, the occasional bouts of mischief, and often periods of comfortable silence--infinitely better than suffering conversations about business holdings and real estate profits over brandy and tobacco. 

It was during such occasions that he realized that Betty always had a mystery to solve, a spirit to follow into an attic--ghosts seemed to think her approachable in this regard. 

It was incredibly unlikely that Betty would have a “reputation” in the spirit realm. Spirits simply did not think that way. Their memories were short and they were always distracted by their own emotional suffering, and even if they did remember things, they did not make friends with other ghosts and gossip with them. There simply wasn’t room in their phantom minds to make social connections_ . _But he did believe that people exuded auras that spirits could read, and where Betty was concerned, she was probably more open to spirits than most. 

Betty was eager to help. She was an enthusiastic investigator, and as much as he wanted to play the Voice of Reason, the one to remind her of the Rule of Boundaries, he could never say no to her. He enabled her. Indulged her, even. Because it pleased him to see her animated, dynamic, and driven. 

So when Betty was quiet, when he could not see the wheels of intent spinning in her brilliant green eyes, he noticed, and it worried him ever so slightly, because for all of her eagerness to help others, she was just like him, refusing to be vulnerable to anyone else, and for him at least, that state of mind had driven him to dark and lonely places. 

The rock of the carriage was soothing. Their pace leisurely. This was not Moose’s carriage. This was the Cooper carriage. It was making him lethargic but no matter how relaxed he was, he would always be aware of Betty and her moods. 

“You seem quiet this morning,” he remarked, tracing her profile with his eyes. He noted how the bones of her face were defined in the light, her jaw a marked shade against the smooth plains of her slender neck. Her golden hair was pulled into a twisted chignon and the hat atop her head was more decorative than functional.

She shifted her gaze from the carriage window to him. “Do I? I suppose I’m a bit preoccupied. My ribs are much improved from the medicine you gave me, but I’m still rather sore.”

“Give it another day.” He briefly considered asking her about her corset, but he bit his lip, noting how the shape of her dress definitely indicated that she was wearing one. He shouldn’t be inserting her intimates in casual conversation, really. She was nineteen, most assuredly a lady even if she professed not to be one, and he was a grown man who was, in spite of being raised in the hovels of the Southside, not a barbarian. “Should your discomfort persist, I am an expert at making swift but somewhat socially acceptable excuses.”

“Somewhat?” 

“One can’t be too exacting in a pinch.”

Her soft chuckle pleased him. “Mother always insists on carrying on. Neither boredom nor exhaustion was a good excuse. ‘We shall rest in our graves, _ Elizabeth.’ _Sometimes I think she forgets we are Kin.”

He was fully aware that she had deflected the conversation from her pensiveness, but she appeared to be settled, not agitated. He would follow her cues for now. “You know I was never in the business of pleasing strangers, Betty. My priorities have and always will be oriented towards those I hold dear.”

She smiled at him with an endearing tilt of her head. “I know, but I shall bear the discomfort for now. I need to have this conversation with the Governor’s wife. We will need some time to get our message across--in a private setting. Are you sure you are up to the task?”

He was. He did not relish the given task, for unlike his dearly departed partner, he did not enjoy flirting for sport, but it was a dance he was familiar with. Flirting requires a strong mind and he was confident he had that strength in spades. That, coupled with the Governor’s wife’s rumored propensity for daring young men--he could very well do this. 

“I understand that you’ve not met my most charming self,” he said in the silkiest tone he could manage. “That is because for your sake, I stifle it, otherwise I will be devastating.”

Her laughter was extra abrasive and loud. She held her middle as she doubled over. “Oh, it still hurts to laugh! But that was splendid. And ridiculous.”

Her laughter brightened her eyes. Her vibrance had always fascinated him. “It is, isn’t it? I need practice seducing the wives of powerful men.”

She drummed her fingers against her chin, her eyes seemingly pondering his appearance. She reached over, loosening his cravat and undoing the top button of his shirt. The slight brush of her finger against the hollow of his throat sent an unexpected bolt of sensation down his body and he felt that the grin on his lips grew frozen with panic. “What are you doing?

“I don’t think you need practice,” she replied in a tone he’d never heard her use before. “You have all you need, Jughead Jones.”

Her words penetrated his bones and scattered his thoughts. 

_ What are you doing, Betts? _

The question shot through his mind unheeded. 

And the fleeting answer that crept through unexpectedly left him speechless and confused. _ Nothing you don’t want me to do... _

  
  


***********************

The gardens were in full bloom for the annual Festival of Flowers at the Dales. It was held at the Greendale Open Market, where fruit stalls and vegetable merchants made way for an array of spectacular flowers and foliage, beautiful arrangements that ranged from the fanciful to the phantasmagoric. Plumes and sprays of color were a feast for the eyes, and while everyone from the three dales were invited to attend, there was a “nominal” fee that was in truth prohibitive to most of the poorer communities. 

Visitors to the exhibit tended to be middle to upper class, and while that was socially abhorrent, it served Betty’s purpose, which was to find the Governor’s wife, who was expected to be there between the hours of 10 and noon. 

There would be people there who knew Betty, perhaps remembered Jughead, but Governor Dooley’s wife hardly orbited their social circle. Measures needed to be taken to isolate Mrs. Dooley amidst the jockeying for her social currency. 

Betty’s conversation with the coachmen at the Great Lotus implied many things about Mrs. Dooley, half of which Betty dismissed as untrue. She didn’t believe, for instance, that Mrs. Dooley had an illicit affair with Malachi. She may have very well contracted him to kill Laura, even possibly through another conduit--through someone else who owed her a favor, or someone who cared more about her than themselves, but Mrs. Dooley, once Miss Geraldine Grundy before she married the esteemed Governor, didn’t strike Betty as a woman who would wade too deeply into the brackish waters of a Southside affair. 

She liked her luxuries and she came from a well-connected family, known to be ruthless, even predatory politicians. 

She liked surrounding herself with beautiful young men and women of a certain standing--moneyed enough to have something to lose. _ That _Betty believed. There were no true rumors of long-term lovers, but talk of momentary dalliances filtered through the noise. Nothing prolonged, but decidedly intimate, and it was that information Betty hoped to exploit. 

It was imperative to separate Mrs. Dooley from her favorite lady friends and isolate her long enough for Betty to have a discussion with her. It was Jughead’s task to take her away where they would be undisturbed. 

Betty shifted her parasol as she walked between colorful and fanciful displays. 

Her eyes stayed on the figure of Mrs. Dooley, glamorous and tall. Her skin was flawless and not a single hair was out of place. Her white dress was resplendent in its pureness, her hat elegant and jaunty at once. She was sixteen years Governor Dooley’s junior, which made Betty think she must have been a child when she was promised and wed to the governor. 

“Hardly the image of a ruthless murderer,” Jughead whispered in her ear, his hands clasped behind his back as they affected a leisurely pace. 

Betty smiled at a familiar face, nodding as they passed before she tilted her head slightly to address Jughead’s words. “Oh, she works hard at this image of Venus, I can tell.” She shifted her parasol and twirled it to cover her face momentarily. “I may very well summon her murderous tendencies if I am not careful.”

Jughead huffed, his tone low as he said, “I hope you realize that is a real danger.”

Betty nodded as she leaned over a spectacularly large flower and sniffed its perfume. “I do, which is why we have _ this plan. _Follow it and trust me. Are you ready to do your part?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She gave him one final look. His dark blue eyes and the flattering drop of curl over his forehead would most assuredly be her downfall at some future occasion, but the loosening of his cravat and collar gave him an appropriately rakish appeal that was sure to catch the devil in every woman’s soul. 

“Go, then. I will see you in the Sweetheart’s Labyrinth.” 

He nodded, his focus already on Mrs. Dooley. 

Betty surreptitiously watched him go, her face hidden in the lace of her parasol. Jughead’s gait was deceptively casual, but even after years apart, she could read the cues of his body, the way his chin tilted a certain way, or how, from a certain angle, she could detect the tension in his shoulders. 

His approach was slow and as he got closer to Mrs. Dooley, Betty hastened through the animal shaped hedges to get a closer view. She saw him lean over Mrs. Dooley’s shoulder. 

Mrs. Dooley was distracted by an arrangement and hadn’t noticed him come up behind her. Whatever he said to her got her attention, which was followed by an amiable smile. His smile in response was elegantly restrained, and the way he looked at her stirred an unreasonable ache in Betty’s heart. 

She had never seen Jughead flirt with other women before and she had no basis of comparison, but even she could decipher the message in his look. How many nights had Betty dreamed of Jughead looking at her that way? Mrs. Dooley was certainly not immune to it. 

What was, at first, Jughead in pursuit, slowly transformed into Mrs. Dooley walking in step with him. Soon enough, Mrs. Dooley’s companions melted back, letting her and Jughead walk off on their own. 

_ He has her. _

Betty’s jealousy could not help but make her wonder where Jughead had practiced this particular set of skills. 

_ Focus. _

With that quick reminder, she made her way to the Sweetheart’s Labyrinth, a section of the exhibit fashioned into a maze of hedges and flowers, with “secret” coves meant for lovers to get lost in. 

She and Jughead had managed to scout a cove earlier, and it was the nearest cove to the entrance of the labyrinth. It stayed empty solely on the logic that sweethearts who wanted privacy did not want to be so easily found. 

For Betty, it would serve their purpose all too well. 

She hurried ahead of their more leisurely pace, and once within the labyrinth, she hastened to hide around the first bend, waiting for Jughead and Mrs. Dooley to enter. 

Mrs. Dooley’s soft voice slowly drifted into the narrow pathways of green. “Mister Jones. I hope you don’t think I am that sort of lady.”

“Believe me when I say that you couldn’t possibly predict what I am thinking of you right this moment.” He said this with the right amount of honey in his tone, and Mrs. Dooley laughed softly, slapping his shoulder lightly with her fan. 

“I assure you that there is nothing you can think of me that I don’t already know.”

“We shall test this theory,” he said, taking Mrs. Dooley’s hand and leading her towards the cove entryway.

They disappeared from Betty’s view and it was much harder to follow their conversation from her vantage point, but she quietly went to them, and when she walked through the entryway, Jughead was just settling Mrs. Dooley on one side of the plush loveseat.

“The conversation was riveting, Mrs. Dooley,” Jughead told her upon seeing Betty step through the cove. “But I’d imagine the next one you have will be far more engrossing.”

As Mrs. Dooley turned in her seat and saw Betty, she seemed only confused, and then hopeful. “Well aren’t you both quite lovely. I don’t mind at all if we were to be a trio for our bit of fun.”

Betty took the empty side of the love seat and folded her parasol closed. “You will. When I am done with you. You will mind a great deal.”

Mrs. Dooley’s eyebrow arched. She might already suspect that this wasn’t the dalliance she was hoping for. “I don’t understand. Who are you?”

Jughead reached into his coat pocket and handed Betty folded documents. 

Betty thanked him quietly as she began to unfold it for Mrs. Dooley to see. “You may call me Elizabeth. What I have here is a deed, Mrs. Dooley, for a property in Hastings street, just slightly off the Vice Quarter, and it states that Governor Dooley owns it. If you look here, his signature is plain as day, and if you go to the city hall, you’ll find a copy of this deed. It is filed in the public record as we speak. It is a pretty piece of real estate, where one Laura Shaw lived and thrived.”

At the mention of Laura’s name, something in Mrs. Dooley’s eyes hardened. The pleasant demeanor she had for Jughead completely evaporated. “And what does all this have to do with me?”

“I think you know. Laura Shaw is--was your husband’s mistress and I know you had her murdered by Malachi--”

“I don’t know these names,” she said in a clipped tone. 

“I think you do. And I don’t need you to admit that you do. Your purpose here is to listen. I cannot prove you murdered Laura in the eyes of the law, but what I can do is make you pay for what you’ve done.” She plucked a card from her sleeve, showing it to Mrs. Dooley. “This is the address of Laura’s family--she has a mother and baby brother. You will compensate them for the loss of a daughter and a sister who provided for them and their needs. You will deliver to them a considerable sum that could get them through the next five years, for that is what time you would have served if you were convicted of this crime, and you will do this in three days. If you fail, I will know, and I will deliver this deed to the papers and explain to them that Governor Dooley’s mistress lived in this property. The papers will no doubt have little problem finding witnesses to support this claim. Scandal is a terrible thing for Governor Dooley’s chances of staying in power, isn’t that right? It is, after all, why you had Laura killed in the first place.”

Mrs. Dooley’s face was a picture of cold calm, even as her jaw visibly clenched and unclenched. “This is extortion.”

Betty shrugged. “I do what I can. The public cares not for a dead prostitute, but a murdered mistress makes for some compelling reading material. Nobody has yet made the connection of the property’s ownership versus the woman who was allowed to live there, but it is easy enough to send the tip to the newspapers. And who knows? Laura’s murderer might yet come to light.”

Whatever delight Mrs. Dooley had for them minutes ago had faded into a cold, hard glare. She transferred her gaze between Betty and Jughead. “You both don’t know who you are dealing with.”

If there was anything Betty was fully aware of, it was this. Mrs. Dooley had hired someone to kill her husband’s mistress. She could do the same for them. They needed to put the fear of God in her. 

“We know exactly who we are dealing with. It is you who needs educating on who we are.” She looked at Jughead and he nodded. 

His Daemon immediately emerged, its wingspan overtaking the entire space of their cove. It jumped atop a hedge, a blue gargoyle with fathomless eyes. 

Mrs. Dooley was seeing _ none _of this. She hadn’t the sight, but it wasn’t the Daemon Betty and Jughead needed her to see.

“There are things in this world that you do not understand, Mrs. Dooley,” Betty began. “Things of a spectral nature, where death and life collide, where the _ un- _dead speak from their graves.”

Jughead’s Daemon began to work his illusion. In the same way Moose’s Daemon can make the carriage look old and rusted, Jughead’s Daemon can make it seem like the healthy flowers and foliage around them were withering and dying. It was this illusion that Mrs. Dooley can see.

“How do you think I knew about Laura’s murder?” Betty continued as their cove turned black and brown, the brilliant colors wasting away before Mrs. Dooley’s very eyes. “How do you think I traced all this information when you were sure that nobody would know?”

Mrs. Dooley didn’t even look like she was paying attention to Betty’s words. Mrs. Dooley’s eyes were filled with horror, her jaw dropping in what could be a soundless scream. They shifted from one end of the cove to another, caught in a nightmare of hellish decay. “Good God!”

Betty leaned over. “There are people like us who govern the realms of the living and the dead, Mrs. Dooley, and if you so much as cross us, _ extortion _will be the least of your worries.” She looked at Mrs. Dooley’s hand, and sure enough, the smooth skin began to wrinkle. Liver spots began to spread, and Mrs. Dooley breathed to scream. 

Betty clamped a hand on her mouth, holding her arm with an iron grip to keep her in place. “You do what I ask, or we will come looking for you again, Mrs. Dooley. Nod yes if you understand.”

Mrs. Dooley, gone of all her elegant composure, vigorously nodded her head. 

Betty tucked the card into the collar of Mrs. Dooley’s dress. “Three days, and I’ll know how much you send them. You’d best impress me, Mrs. Dooley.” Finally, she let Mrs. Dooley go and not a second too soon, she was up and running, almost tripping on her way out. 

As soon as she was gone, Jughead let the illusion go and the Daemon disappeared back into his Mark. 

They were surrounded by the health and beauty of the flowers once more and Betty was stifling a grin. 

“Do you think we got through to her?” Jughead asked, smirking. 

Betty laughed and stood, popping her parasol open and settling it on her shoulder. “That was excellent Daemon-craft, Mister Jones.”

He tipped his hat graciously. “Your performance was inspiring, to say the least,” he replied, taking her hand and hooking it over his arm. “Good work. And does this mean we can put the Case of the Murdered Mistress behind us?”

She nodded. “I’ve sent a missive to Laura’s family, and should Mrs. Dooley fail, they will let me know. So long as Mrs. Dooley pays, and I think she will, then yes. We can put this case to bed. And then we can focus on convincing mother to let me go to New York with you. I have a few ideas already--I can hire someone to pretend to be my chaperone--”

Jughead laughed, which forestalled her words. “You see, I knew you would think up something like that!”

She tried to frown. How dare he accused her or predictability, but he knew her so well, still, that she couldn’t help but forgive him this slight. “And do you have a better idea?”

“I do. Reason.”

Until now, she always held Jughead’s judgement in high regard. “Reason. Have you lost yours? Mother is particularly unreasonable on matters pertinent to my life and reputation. You know this.” 

Perhaps sensing her agitation, he covered her hand with his and squeezed lightly. “There was only ever one person whose reasoning your mother heeded.”

“Charles.” It still hurt to say his name, especially when she felt his loss so keenly in times of need. 

Jughead nodded. “Charles. And so it is he who must convince your mother.”

*******************

When Jughead opened Charle’s vault at the bank, he found, first and foremost, a carefully wrapped box, meant to get his attention. The card attached to it said, “To Jughead”.

Within the box were all the signed papers necessary to bequeath all of Charles’s holdings to him. It was, it seemed, an addendum to Charle’s vague will, outlining the details of the actual heir, Jughead Jones, brother by blood. It was a document meant only to be shown to the public should Jughead’s right to the inheritance get questioned. The main will, which dictates that the holder of the vault keys would inherit Charle’s estate, served as the required legal document, but Charles made sure that all contingencies were taken cared of. 

Jughead cherished these documents not for their monetary value, but for the intent. Charles was _ willing _to let the world know they were brothers, and Charles trusted that he would use these documents with care, thinking about how such a revelation would affect Alice.

To Jughead’s mind, it would affect Betty, as well, so he was willing to take the secret of Charles’s lineage to his own grave, but it was important--this proof that Charles saw him as a brother in every sense of the word. 

Tucked within the legal papers was a letter from Charles, telling him that he was proud of what Jughead had become, that he was a man Charles was only too glad to entrust his estate and family to. In the letter, he said he believed that what Jughead learned in the academy could be a great complement to what Charles taught him. 

> _"I keep faith, that you will carry with you everything I taught you, that you will uphold the old ways of the Kin, of the Peace Dealers that came before you."_

Jughead held these words close to his heart, more so when Charles wrote of Betty, about how Charles entrusted Betty in his care. 

> _ “She is brilliant and I am proud of what she has and can become. Take good care of her, Forsythe. By the time you read this letter, I’ll not know what her goals and aspirations will be, but if you find that the Daemon Locked world in which she exists has grown too small for her, I am confident that you will do for her what is necessary and with her best interests in mind.” _

The letter was dated soon after Jughead graduated from Stonewall. 

Sometimes, Jughead wondered if Charles saw into some future, writing this letter knowing that he was going to pass early in life. But the Kin were not soothsayers. There was no literature to suggest that they ever were. 

What Charles was--was deliberate. 

Jughead thought perhaps that Charles’s forsaken state made him ponderous of his mortality, in the way life upheavals tended to, and because of this, he prepared for the worst. At the time of Charles’s death, his estate was perfectly administered and ready to be passed on. 

So when it came to obtaining permission from Alice to bring Betty to New York with him, it was Charles’s unequivocal trust that empowered Jughead to convince her.

Now, as he and Betty sat in the parlor with Alice, he patted that letter tucked within the pocket of his coat.

Betty endeavored to pour tea for them all, delicately holding the pot and its cover. She promised to hold her tongue at Alice’s sharp rebukes, to respond only with reason and not anger. 

Jughead could not conceive of the amount of restraint that would take, but he had to trust that Betty would be equal to the challenge. 

“Mrs. Cooper,” he began, as Alice slowly uncovered the small pot of sugar. “I thought it best to revisit the matter of Betty coming to New York city with me.”

Alice cast him and Betty a sardonic smile. “In case I change my mind? My answer is still _ no.” _

Jughead glanced at Betty, checking her temperature at this first test. She seemed calm, her breathing unchanged. He went went on. “I realize that the last time we spoke, I failed to present a compelling argument.”

Alice slowly began scooping several teaspoons of sugar into her cup and Jughead watched as the granules fell into the hot liquid in a seemingly endless stream. “Do you mean to say that you provided no reason for me to consider ruining my unmarried daughter’s reputation by running off with her rumored cousin, whom could very well be a scoundrel for all anyone knows, to that most disreputable of cities, New York? Without a chaperone? I might as well send her off on a one-way train ride to the ninth _ circle of hell _.”

Betty’s eyes rolled, but she said nothing, picking up her own cup and sipping it. 

“From a strictly literary perspective,” Jughead began, his eyes shifting between Betty’s non-reaction and the stirring of Alice’s spoon. “New York only goes so far as the _ eighth _circle. It is decidedly patriotic and loyal to the union and therefore far from treacherous…”

Alice and Betty both glared at him. 

“... but that is not heavily relevant to this conversation…” he added, awkwardly. “Mrs. Cooper, we all wish to preserve Betty’s good name. If a reason is required to staunch any unfounded rumors, we can simply say that Betty is going to Finishing School.”

Betty’s cup landed heavily on her saucer in outraged silence and Jughead shot her a pleadingly contrite look. 

Alice huffed loudly but was decidedly less hostile to this suggestion than Betty was, and Jughead, considering this as momentum, hastily continued. _ “If _ that is at all necessary, but that is but a fraction of this matter--what Betty and I hope is to reintroduce Betty into Kin society, to _ her _people, where she belongs. Where her gifts would be celebrated and not ridiculed. Where she could find her way through open opportunity and not spend her nights running in the Southside to fulfill her calling there.”

“I see,” Alice said, sipping her overly sweetened tea. “You want me to allow her to go to New York so that instead of just risking her life and safety at night, she can do so, too in the light of day.”

“Oh, mother!”

Jughead quickly attempted to assuage Betty’s well-justified exasperation by resting a hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Cooper, Betty’s safety is my foremost priority.”

“I know what you Kin do over there,” Alice said through gritted teeth. “You lot pretend that you care about things other than chasing down wayward spirits and violent specters. For sure, the Kin have developed a society all their own, separate from that of the Daemon Locked, with culture and sciences and even a government to hold it all together, but at your core, the Kin regale Peace Dealers as heroes. Its society _ works _ around the supreme calling of sending rogue souls into the light. It is the Peace Dealers that acquire positions of power, it is the Peace Dealers who still hold the greatest sway. _ Of course _ Betty will thrive in that society! She is _ a natural _ at this. She was born for it. It is what she will do to her dying day, but you know how dangerous the occupation is. And for what? Wealth? _ Prestige?” _She set her cup down. “There is nothing wrong with living a simple life!”

“There isn’t, but only if you aspire for such a life,” Jughead said. “And Betty’s life is more complicated now living _ two _of them, where she is expected to be a dutiful daughter during the day, but lives an incredibly different life at night. How is she safer then? Working alone, without the Kin’s more modern implements to help her along?”

“What you want for me and what I want are two very different things, mother,” Betty interjected. “And this life you want for me will bring me nothing but misery.”

Jughead unfolded the letter Charles left him and showed it to Alice. “Charles knew this, keenly. He knew that Betty wasn’t going to stay here forever. And he asked that when Betty was ready, I should be there with her on her journey.”

For several seconds, Alice only stared at the letter, refusing to take it, but she did eventually take it and read it. As she read the letter, her eyes began to fill, and Jughead could only offer her a handkerchief, which she accepted, dabbing it against her eyes. When she was finished, she folded the letter before handing it back to Jughead. 

She turned her gaze on Betty. “I lost Polly once upon a time, and then your father was lost at sea. With Charles passing, you are my only family left. I fear that so far away, my prayers for your safety will not reach.”

Betty sighed. “Mother, you were never so pious.”

“I dabble on occasion,” she replied, tearfully. “The dead go into the light. It isn’t beyond one’s imagination to suppose there is a higher power watching over us. The point remains, you are all I have and you are a reckless hooligan of a girl.”

“I am not reckless,” Betty protested, weakly. 

Jughead understood Alice’s pain. Saw it better, perhaps, than Betty did. He was, in this mother-daughter viewpoint, from the outside looking in. “I will watch out for her, Mrs. Cooper. And unlike my journey, there is nothing to keep you both from seeing one another when you want to. At any rate, we can always sell this property and you can move to the city--”

“Bite your tongue, you scoundrel,” Alice hissed, and the fire in her eyes flared back to life. “This house will remain in my care for as long as you or your heirs wish to keep it, and you know that when it comes to what I want, I can be very persuasive.”

“Mother,” Betty said, holding both of Alice’s hands. “Please. Please let me go to New York. If I stay here, I shall go mad and be increasingly unmarriageable.”

“Will New York have eligible bachelors, you think?” 

Jughead realized that the question was being directed at him, and truly, he had never given this possibility much thought. Not for Jellybean, not for Betty. “That is for Betty to decide, Mrs. Cooper.”

Alice sighed, shaking her head. “And I suppose that’s always been Elizabeth’s privilege--getting her way. Charles always did spoil you, dear. Jughead will do the same.”

Jughead frowned. “I _ don’t _spoil her.”

“Oh, that is right. You and she are more cohorts than anything else.” Alice threw up her hands. “And I shall never hear the end of it if I don’t give you my permission. Worse, Betty will likely go to New York, anyway, my permission be damned.”

Betty bit her lip, stifling her grin of anticipation. It was sounding more likely that Alice was giving in. “Mother, I would _ never.” _

“Oh, please spare me. You refused to heed Charles half the time, me even less. I might as well pretend I _ allowed _you to do this. So yes, you may go to New York with Jughead.”

Betty gave a yelp of excitement, clapping her hands and getting to her feet. “Juggie, I am going to New York!”

He could not help the broadness of his smile. She looked so happy, with her brilliant green eyes so bright and her smile radiant with possibilities. Her hair bounced upon her shoulders and he realized, randomly, that he’d never seen it so long. “Thank you, Mrs. Cooper.”

“I must run off and pack,” Betty said, her gaze far away, her mind likely listing the things she would need. “I don’t have much time. We leave tomorrow, don’t we?” 

Jughead nodded, fascinated by the way her mind can shift from celebratory to practical in seconds. 

“I shall see you at dinner, then. Or perhaps tomorrow morning. There is a lot to be done.” She hastily thanked her mother before she flitted out of the room, closing the parlor doors as she went.

Jughead looked at those doors for several moments, smiling, before he turned his attention back to Alice. 

He was startled by the intensity of her gaze. “Sorry. I should be going as wel--”

“She’s grown since you first left Riverdale, hasn’t she, Mister Jones?”

An inexplicable heat spread from his chest and up his neck. It was so distinct that he felt sweat prickle from his brow. “I hadn’t noticed, really.”

“Oh? Well, my daughter is many things, but a wallflower, she isn’t. She tries to be, but wealth and eligibility notwithstanding, the smarter ones _ do _ notice her. Too bad most of _ those _were either not rich enough or were not brave enough to gainsay their own parents--parents who weren’t likely to be persuaded to let their sons marry a brilliant and beautiful, but dowry-less girl.”

He could feel his collar getting even hotter. “I don’t think about it, really, but I agree that Betty is brilliant… _ nice _to look at, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

He swallowed. “Mrs. Cooper, if an eligible bachelor presents himself, it is entirely for Betty to decide whether or not to entertain him.”

“But you’ll scrutinize them, won’t you?” Alice asked in a mild tone. “Make sure they _ are _good enough for her. That is your responsibility now. Charles would have agreed. You know how some of these rakes operate. They know how to charm their way into a woman’s good opinion, and Betty fancies herself worldly and cynical, but her experience with rogues is minimal, at best. You’ll make sure she isn’t taken advantage of, won’t you?”

Jughead could feel his shoulders start to tense, his lips pursing at the very notion that Alice was asking him to gate-keep Betty’s future suitors. Betty would be furious if she found out that he had come to any kind of agreement with Alice behind her back. “I am not her father, Mrs. Cooper. I am _ not _Charles.”

Alice laughed, softly, and waved his developing outrage away with her hand. “Oh, I am sure you are keenly aware that she isn’t your sister, Mister Jones. I am merely asking you to see to it that she does not fall for the wrong man. I am certain that even without my asking, you would do this anyway, but I want to make it clear that you have my full support. Do you understand, Mister Jones?”

Alice had never been so aggravating. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Cooper. I need to speak with my coachman.” He stood with little ceremony. 

Alice seemed completely unbothered by this mild slight. “Of course. I will see you at dinner.”

Jughead nodded, and taking his hat with him, he made his way out of the room. 

******************

Betty, Jughead, and Moose left at noon. It was the earliest trip they could get on short notice. 

They boarded the train as it whistled on the platform. 

“You didn’t bring much, Miss,” Moose said, easily lifting her trunk onto the luggage car. 

“I brought what I need, and I don’t need much,” Betty replied, casting her gaze over that familiar platform. She was momentarily brought back to those years when she watched Jughead pull away, her love unrequited. 

“And should she have need of that which she does not have,” Jughead said, hauling his own luggage into the car. “We shall procure it.”

Moose laughed.

Betty gave a soft huff. “I don’t like depending on anyone, even you, Juggie, but I haven’t a choice, do I?”

“Save your resentment,” Jughead said in an exasperated tone. “Unlike the Daemon Locked, women of the Kin have opportunities to earn a reasonable income. Should you have need of anything, you would be as capable as any man to buy it yourself.”

Betty was as of yet incapable of fathoming that which has so far been denied her all her life: Independence. “Truly?” 

Jughead cocked a smile and she saw in his eyes kind understanding instead of amusement. “Truly. But before you can seek gainful employment, you’ll need to rely on what Charles left for your keep for a little while longer.”

“Besides,” Moose said, grinning cheekily. “You’ll find that Jughead is painfully practical of his coin.”

Betty took stock of Moose’s words before she threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, Jughead.”

He frowned. “I am practical, period. Not _ painfully so. _ That’s the Southside in me. I am lavish with my coin if I find value in spending it, and these men who keep women with gold are likely compensating for something they have smaller amounts _ of.” _

“Oh, ho ho!” Moose hooted. “_Size _jokes! In front of a lady, too.”

Betty could feel a flash of heat radiating from her collar, but she refused to seem so innocent. “Don’t hold back on account of me.”

Jughead grinned. “Moose, how dare you suggest Betty’s sensibilities so delicate.” He offered his arm to her and Betty took it. 

She liked the way he smiled at her, enjoyed how she felt seen not only when he spoke to her but when he spoke _ of _her. 

“It’s a long way to New York City,” Moose pointed out, tucking his hat over his head as he came up behind them. “I may offend you yet, Miss Cooper.”

Betty grinned. “I’d like to see you try.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jughead said, after which he directed his gaze at Moose. “Seriously, Marmaduke. I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you worry, Jones. I wouldn’t dream of offending your lady on purpose.”

“Moose.”

His tone had changed, all jest gone. The train’s whistle blew and crowds hurried to get on board. Jughead’s grip tightened on her hand as he ushered her up the steps and through the car, right to their assigned compartment. It was a well-ordered bustle, with the conductors pointing and leading the way. 

Betty was yet to absorb the extraordinary fact that she was on a train, leaving Riverdale behind. She had never been on a train before. 

“I’ve never gone anywhere else,” Betty said, more to herself than to her train companions as she settled into a seat. “Without Charles, I mean.” 

As she looked up at them, she surmised that there must have been something arresting in her eyes, because Jughead and Moose looked at one another and by some wordless communication, seemed to have come to a quick agreement. 

“I’m off to look for the concession cart. I need a snack and can’t wait for it,” Moose said. “I’ll be back shortly.” He tipped his hat and hurried out. 

As soon as their compartment door closed behind Moose, Jughead settled beside her. 

His eyes were the bluest she’d ever seen them, and she didn’t quite know what she was feeling at the moment, overwhelmed as she was by this strangely significant transition of breaking the town border of Riverdale with this train without Charles to hold her hand.

“I’ve been held back all my life, Jughead,” she said, letting the words pour from her lips. “And now that I find myself on the precipice of an entirely new world, a world where you tell me that the restraints that previously limited me would be undone, I realized that I am not sure I would know what to do with it--that freedom. I’ve never had it before.”

He took both her hands in his. “That’s not true, you know--that you’ve never had that freedom. Freedom seldom comes without a struggle. Each night you put on your disguise--_ any _disguise, you take a little piece of freedom to do with as you deem fit. You’ve had practice.” He pushed back some hair that had come loose from her ponytail. “In New York, you will have it in abundance, yes, but Charles prepared you well, just as he prepared me. And you won’t be alone. You’ll always have me to turn to.”

The anxiety that sat tight in her belly loosened just enough for her to breathe. She laughed, softly. “Until I learn my own way. I won’t be a burden to you for long.”

“You are not and never will be a burden to me, Betty.” He chuckled, rising to make himself more comfortable in the car and putting away their carry ons. “I’d sooner be your burden. Charles tasked me with your safety, and you’ll find that I’ll be very difficult to be rid of on account of it. You, Elizabeth Cooper, are quite stuck with me.”

She started loosening the ties of her hat as well. “In that case, it seems we’re stuck with each other. You’ll be quite tired of me before you know it. I _ don’t _like balls or parties, if you recall. I’d much rather stay home--or skulk through the Southside, as you know.”

“Good. I’d much rather stay home as well, perhaps even more so than you, as I find so little joy in chasing down pimps, scoundrels, and murderers late at night.”

“Lying does not become you. You enjoy a good investigation as much as I do.”

He said nothing but his grin said everything. 

The door slid open and Moose sauntered in. “I heard that. You both need to learn that investigating is no one’s idea of a lark. Live with the living, as it says upon Stonewall’s crest.” 

She recognized the wisdom in Moose’s advice, and even she knew that spending too much time with the dead and their unresolved pasts was detrimental to one’s health and well-being, but she also recognized that she preferred a very select number of living people. 

Betty locked eyes with Jughead and his soft smirk was reassuring. Moose meant well, but he didn’t know them like they did, each other. 

******************

Grand Central Terminal was nothing like anything Betty had ever seen. Wrought iron railings spanned the train platforms, symbolic gates to a city for the masses that crossed them from everywhere else. The spacious tunnels that herded thousands of passengers was a sea of bodies that Betty felt she had to fight against. People walked past her in a hurry, dodging her as they went, like she were a jutting rock shaping the tide. 

She attempted to help Moose take their luggage from the platform to their cart, but Jughead requested that she hold his hat while he helped Moose himself. She shot him a glare and he shrugged contritely, though she suspected he wasn’t sorry at all for foiling her attempts at being useful. 

When their luggage cart was loaded, Moose said something in Jughead’s ear and began to push their luggage in a different direction, maneuvering through the crowds. Before Betty could ask Jughead where Moose was going, Jughead was hooking her hand through his arm, and they joined the tide of people together. 

As they emerged into the central station, Betty found her jaw dropping at the spectacularly vaulted ceilings, story-high beveled glass windows, and sculpted masonry. The gas lamps were lit to full brightness and the train schedules, displayed on Solari boards, energetically shifted its tiles. Lines formed at the various ticketing windows amidst the constant ebb and flow of passengers to and from the train gates. 

Even the people waiting for their trains to board hardly stood still. 

Betty practically felt the air crackling with energy. 

They descended the steps, crossed the wide open floor, and then climbed another set of stairs. 

Betty did not understand why they descended steps only to climb them again, but they weren’t the only ones doing it and she kept her questions to herself, absorbing everything that was happening. 

The ceilings lowered, but the walkway was still vast, and at the end of it were a row of doors, cast iron and plated in glass. At the far end of the row was a single gilded revolving gate, which fewer people used, perhaps even deliberately avoided, just to use the door next to it. 

It was this door that Jughead ushered her through, and as soon as she stepped into its revolving panels, she felt herself walk through a veil, and when she came out the other side, the wonder that was New York City left her breathless with wonder. 

**************

The first thing she noticed were the trains zooming by overhead in impossible structures--railways built high above the streets, above the traffic of people and carriages. Craning her neck, she stared at buildings built higher than she’d ever seen, lit like giant beacons against the moonlit sky. Atop these tall buildings, she could spy great vessels afloat, held aloft by giant balloons, beams of light streaming from their noses. 

As her eyes swerved to street level, her eyes were drawn to a self-propelled vehicle that zipped by between horse-drawn carriages and large train cars attached to overhead cables. 

But more astounding than all these technological marvels were the Daemons, so many of them walking and working in plain sight with their wielders, doing a myriad of tasks that helped and enhanced the work. 

Betty turned one way and then another, her mind firing at every single sight and sound, unfamiliar and incredible. 

In the distance, she spied a building higher than all the rest, with several ballooned vessels circling it. Amidst the balloons were tinier contraptions held aloft by some aerial force. The tower sitting atop it glowed varying shades of color, a never ending shifting of lights against the night sky. Judging by the size of the balloons, she estimated that the tower itself must be massive. 

“That is the Menhir,” Jughead said behind her, gesturing to the tower. “The source of all energy in New Kin city. Every wonder you see here--the trains, the cable cars, the lights, the radio waves, and telegraphs, sources its energy from that tower.”

Betty could not fathom that amount of raw power. “What are those big balloons flying around it?”

“Dirigibles. They guard the tower from aerial threats of all kinds.”

“And the little things zipping about?”

“Ezekials,” said Jughead, his grin wide as he stared at the tower with her. “They are clever little airships, single manned, and much more agile than its slower, more powerful cousins.”

Betty looked around her, turning in place as her eyes scanned the city from her vantage point. “And the Daemon Locked never accidentally come through the doors?”

The corners of Jughead’s lips bowed downward for a moment. “Rarely. The Daemon Locked aren’t even supposed to see the Doors. It its place, they should see a wall. We have these portals in all ports of entry--advantage of being on an island, but when the Daemon Locked don’t pay attention, they might fall through the cracks. They are promptly ushered out and are likely to explain away what they’ve seen to themselves. Seers have been known to stumble through these doors, as well, but while Seers are relatively more common, very rarely do they actually see and stumble through our portals. Here, we thrive and live our Kin lives to the full extent of our existence.”

Betty took in this new world, breathing in the inexplicable street smells mixed with the scent of the more familiar--horse sweat, wood fire, sewer water, and grease. 

A horseless carriage car pulled up on the curb, its body sleeker and shinier than any carriage she’d ever seen. On the door was a crest, emblazoned with a dragon holding up a coat of arms, with a profile of a woman on one side holding a watch and the grim reaper, holding his scythe and sand clock on the other. They stood back to back on the crest, separated by the words _ Noli Timere Mortis, _Do not fear death.

Betty stared at it, confounded by its function. 

When Jughead opened a door, she could only assume she was expected to step into it. 

Gathering her skirts, she entered the vehicle. Jughead followed right behind her, settling on the opposite seat, much like a carriage, but more enclosed, quieter and with some internal lighting. 

Jughead slid open the window behind him. “Thank you, Moose. Everything squared with customs?”

“They weren’t keen on the cigars, but it was nothing I couldn’t bribe them for.”

Jughead nodded, his expression one of infinite forbearance. “Very good. Let us contribute to moral decay in little ways.”

“Don’t ask me for any cigars when your supplies run short.” Moose slid the window shut before Jughead could say anything else. 

Betty bit her lip to stifle her grin. She watched Jughead lean back on his seat, the tension from his shoulders melting away. His eyes closed for a moment, and she would wager that if there was no one there to see him, Jughead would be smiling with relief. 

This place was home to him. Here, he was not other. 

It made her a little sad to realize that her house at Elm had ceased to be that for him because he was prevented from being there, but she was twice as glad to see that he found belonging here. 

As for her, she was still taking this wondrous world in. She had so many questions, such as: How did these vessels move on their own? How were there lights without a fire? What sort of jobs did women in this world keep? 

But she did not want to pester him with these questions. Not yet. 

She watched the marvels of this world pass them by, and while the streets and sidewalks never grew empty, they did grow less crowded, until they were turning on a street amidst a row of houses, not quite as vast or acred like her house at Elm, but impressively sized for the more compact homes that appeared to be common in the city. 

They rolled into the carriageway of No. 12 on 86th street, between 2nd and 1st avenue. It was much quieter here, where houses were lined up along the road. As Betty was helped out of the vehicle, she couldn’t help but touch its glossy exterior, staring at this marvel of a contraption. 

“What is this called?” 

It was Moose, helping unload her luggage, who replied. “It has many names as of yet. Not many have one of these beauties. They are most commonly referred to as autocarriages. The engineers call it an autoactuator.”

“Auto-_ mobilis _ is my favored name,” Jughead said, assisting Moose unload Betty’s trunk. 

Moose scoffed. “Latin. How boring. It will never catch on.”

Betty felt drawn to this piece of machinery, fascinated by its speed and power. She wanted to examine it more closely. “Auto-mobilis has a nice ring to it, I think. I would like to see what is inside it at another time, may I? Or is that too forward of me?”

“Not at all!” Moose cried.

Jughead sighed. “Now you’ve done it.”

“Pay no attention to this philistine, Miss Cooper,” Moose said, dropping his end of the trunk and completely ignoring Jughead’s glare. “Weaker minds see not the art in the machinery. It would be my honor to show you the belly of this beast. When so ever you find yourself available, do send a missive and I shall be along promptly to show you what this autoactuator can do--how fast it can go, how far, how quickly it accelerates--”

“Sounds fascinating,” Jughead grumbled. 

Moose stepped right in front of Jughead, completely blocking him from Betty’s view. “You look like an individual who can appreciate the mathematics and science of a finely designed machine, Miss Cooper. It is because your brain has the capacity to understand such details.”

Betty tried her hardest not to laugh. “Ah, yes, of course. My brain.”

“Unlike some people, whose brains have no capacity for such disciplines.”

“There it is,” Jughead interjected from behind him. 

Betty patted Moose’s shoulder. “I will let you know, Mister Mason. I really am interested in this machine and would be delighted to have someone with abundant knowledge of it to show me through its gears and cogs.”

“That’s right. Abundant knowledge,” Moose said, nodding and throwing Jughead a pointed look. 

Jughead rolled his eyes. 

Perhaps satisfied that he had made his point, Moose said his goodbyes as he secured the doors of the vehicle and stepped back into the driver’s seat. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jughead.”

Jughead waved and Moose was off.

They watched him go before Jughead prompted them to head into the house.

When Betty turned towards the front door, she was surprised to find a young gentleman, looking towards the distance as well. He was a handsome man, with thick brown hair and chiselled features. He was dressed for sleep, with a luxuriantly patterned robe over his white nightgown. 

“Hello,” Betty said, her instinct to be polite taking over. 

The man smiled at her, even if she could tell that his eyes were still droopy from sleep. “Miss Cooper, I presume? You must excuse my appearance. I would have been better prepared if young master Jones here had the decency to warn me of your arrival at this very late hour.”

Before Betty could decide whether she should tell him his appearance did not bother her or whether she should apologize, Jughead sighed.

“I am sorry, Kevin, but I was hoping _ not _to disturb you.”

“Nothing in this house happens without my knowledge, Forsythe,” Kevin said in a tight tone. “How many times must I tell you this? My beauty sleep means nothing if I am awakened unprepared for guests.” He took the other end of Betty’s trunk and together they carried her things as they lumbered through the doors. 

“It’s almost eleven. You needn’t prepare for anything as we just want to settle in our rooms--”

“Precisely. I could have made up her room, put on a fire, scented and turned down her bed, readied some tea, a nice infusion--perhaps even get a bath going. I’ve no idea where you’ve been so she might want a relaxing dip in the tub. I swear, Forsythe, you’ve no idea how to treat a lady.”

Betty nibbled at her lip anxiously. “I would be perfectly happy with just a bed, Mister...”

“Betty, this is Kevin Keller,” Jughead said, “Our very brilliant and enigmatic butler. Kevin, this is Betty Cooper. You’ve heard me speak of her?”

Kevin scowled. _ “Don’t _ make fun of me. This household would be in complete disarray without my expert management. I am honored to meet you, Miss Cooper. I have heard nothing but good things about you and none of this is your fault. Honestly, this is _ my _fault--for trusting young master Forsythe.”

Jughead groaned. “Oh, please.”

“Fortunately,” Kevin continued. “Your room _ is _ ready at its _ most _ basic--has been since yesterday. The sheets are new and the pillows are fresh. Aired it several times, too, and the furniture’s been dusted--it’s what happens when I’m told ahead of time that we are expecting someone. But it would have been perfect, like I said, if I’d had advanced warning of your actual arrival.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect as it is, Mister Keller,” Betty said. “Jughead has had _ many _things on his mind the last few days. Administrative matters make little room for anything else, as you probably know. We’re old friends, he and I. He might have mentioned it. He took up where my brother, God rest his soul, left us too soon. Jughead has been such a comfort in my grief. Much of his time has been dedicated to that.”

He cast Jughead a withering glance. “He is lucky you speak so well of him, Miss Cooper. If you’ll give Forsythe and I a moment to put your trunk in your room, it would be a great favor if you sit in the receiving room for a moment. Forsythe will rejoin you once your luggage is in place.”

Jughead cast her an exasperated look, but he said nothing as he helped Kevin load the trunks into a dolly. 

Betty fled into the receiving room, where she found herself drawn to the room’s decor. 

The furniture was tasteful, but certainly more masculine than the feminine touches found in the Cooper household. Whereas many of the Cooper fabrics were lighter in shade, perhaps with the occasional floral pattern, the Jones household was awash in dark shades, from fabric to oak. The furniture was sparse with embellishment, with tall shelves lining its walls. It was not a large room, but it had high ceilings and long windows. Each area was functional, with a tea area to receive guests, a small conference table to one side, and a sitting area to warm around the fireplace. 

Photographs decorated the walls--not of people, which was incredibly unusual, but images of busy tableaus--distinctly Kin with the surrounding technology and landscapes, and then there were photographs of strange but wondrous contraptions. It fascinated her, that Photography would be used for something other than capturing the dead pretending to be alive. 

These images preserved something other than those who passed. And there was artistry to the images, as well. 

“Hello.”

Betty whirled at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, and her gaze fell on an older man, the spitting image of Jughead were it not for this man’s facial hair. He was not in his sleep clothes, but he seemed comfortably dressed in pants, a blouse with folded sleeves, and a vest. If she wasn’t mistaken, this was Forsythe Pendleton, Sr.--FP, as her mother called him. “Mister Jones?”

He nodded, a small smile on his lips. “Miss Cooper. I am glad to see that you and Jughead made it in safely.”

“I am sorry we came in so late--”

He waved her apology away. “Please. You have no influence over the train schedules. Where is Forsythe?”

“Oh, he and Kevin brought my things up to the guest room.”

“To _ your _room,” FP said. “You are not a guest, Miss Cooper. You are family.”

Betty did not expect the emotions that came over her at that statement. She remembered, then, that this was Charles’s father. “In that case, please call me Betty.”

“Betty. I was glad to hear from Jughead that you were joining us in the city.” He sat on one of the sofa chairs and she made a motion to join him, but he stopped her. “Don’t sit on account of me. You were interested in the photographs? Please feel free to keep looking. Goodness knows, they are far more interesting than I will ever be.”

This was an FP she never conceived of speaking to. Any mention of FP in the past from Jughead had been one of scorn and anger. He never had a single good thing to say about his father, but this man was mild and accommodating. And to be fair, Jughead had said nothing untoward about him since Jughead showed up in Riverdale. People can change. “I’m sure that’s not true. The Joneses will be as much of a discovery to me as the world of the Kin. As you know--Riverdale is a much smaller town than this.”

FP shrugged. “I was drunk most of the time I was there. An entire world could have passed me by and I would not have noticed.”

Betty wasn’t sure she should say anything in response to that. 

“I apologize,” FP hastily added, sighing. “I forget that I cannot joke about these matters to just anyone. And I was trying to work my way into a serious conversation. I suppose I was trying to get to the fact that I could have done better for my children--Jughead, Jellybean, and Charles. I am just grateful Charles was spared of me. I am sorry for your loss, Betty.”

She swallowed the tightening in her throat. “It is your loss, too.”

He made a soft sound. “My loss comes from regret, not true grief. I barely knew Jughead then, much less Charles. I cannot wish to completely redo the past, for if I had done right by your mother, Jughead and Jellybean--even _ you _might never have existed, but I could have taken the time to know Charles when he made himself present for Jughead. I was a different man then--nothing to be proud of. Charles saved his brother, and their mother saved all of us. I can only repay Charles for what he did for Jughead by helping you find your own way. You have my full support, Betty. I promise you that.”

Betty hadn’t quite absorbed the possibilities of this new world, much less her own place in it, but she appreciated FP speaking to her this way, offering what he can even when he couldn’t possibly know what she needed. 

The sound of Jughead and Kevin’s voices carried from the other hallway, their footfalls steady. When Jughead appeared at the door, he was alone. His gaze fell upon FP. “Father. I did not expect you to be up and about.”

“I thought it appropriate to extend a warm welcome to Betty. I am glad she is here. I trust her room is ready to receive her.”

Jughead nodded. “Kevin made what final touches he could. I expect that Betty will be retiring soon. Did you want me to bring up some tea to settle you after I escort Betty to her room?”

Betty could have assumed that this was how Jughead politely dismissed his father, but she could see the earnestness in Jughead’s gaze and the appreciation in FP’s. This was Jughead, a true gentleman at twenty and four, mindful of her while promising his father a few minutes to talk.

FP lightly waved his words away. “I am set to retire, myself. I just wanted to see you both settled. Take care of Betty and we’ll talk in the morning, you and I. Betty, it was a pleasure to see you again… pleasure to finally talk to you.”

“And I you, Mister Jones.”

FP left, patting Jughead’s shoulder as he left. 

She did not want to talk about FP when he wasn’t in the room, and she wasn’t quite sure about Jughead’s feelings about his father, as of yet, so she diverted to the photographs on the walls. “These are fascinating images. Lovely perspective.”

“Thank you. I took them.”

She hadn’t expected that. “With a camera?”

He grinned. “That is usually the way photographs are taken.”

A brief heat seared from her collar. “Of course. I suppose I never quite thought of you as the type. Photography is such an unlikely medium for art…”

Jughead nodded, staring at one of an empty street, angled to frame the moon in the sky with building structures. “Naturally, my first introduction to photography had to do with the dead. It was a booming business in the Southside. Subjects were often young--taken from their families too soon. It was tragic, but also kind. The photographer was a sensitive man, mindful of the loss of the subject’s families, and he didn’t charge much. Just enough for him to live by. He told me he often used his equipment to capture beautiful things, too, in his free time. I thought that a lovely idea. When I came to New York, the Kin introduced me to equipment that captured images faster. Photography is a hobby for me and we hung some of my captures throughout the house.”

“They are fascinating. You must tell me about each one sometime.”

He looked pleased by the suggestion. “Sometime. Let me show you to your room. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

She wasn’t bone tired. There wasn’t much they could do on the train except sit and snooze so she felt aptly rested. Her mind was alive with questions, and normally, she would be quite active at this hour, doing work in the Southside. He was probably more exhausted that she was. She could imagine that keeping her entertained was trying for him. Jughead had never been an incredibly social person. He needed time alone to replenish his energies, and he hadn’t had that time today, and getting back to the city--she could imagine that his body started shutting down the moment they got into the _ auto-mobilis, _because all the sights and sounds that fascinated her was not new to him. For him, all of it was ordinary and not at all stimulating. 

As he led her up to the third floor landing, she made plans to read by the fire. She had a book which she was yet to finish. 

When they reached her door, Jughead smirked. “You aren’t tired, are you?”

Was there some spring to her step that he had observed? Had she grown predictable so quickly?

“You’re usually out of the house at this hour, that’s all,” Jughead added, perhaps in response to her look of surprise. “And our train ride offered nothing on the matter of vigorous activity.”

It occurred to her that he might suspect that she would sneak out. He had good reason to be suspicious since she was terrible at heeding anyone’s words of caution. “I am not sneaking out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He laughed, mildly. “I didn’t think that at all, I promise. Planning to read a book, perhaps?”

That settled it. She’d grown boringly predictable. 

“Betts,” he said, the touch of his hand on her arm gentle. “I don’t think even death can make you predictable.”

She wondered then if he had read her thoughts. They had always been attuned to one another, having an astute instinct for each other’s requirements, but lately she’d been astounded by the accuracy of their intuition for each other, mostly because they had been separated for years. One would think that would have diminished their bond, and yet they’d been hyper-sensitive of each other’s thoughts and feelings since he returned. Uncannily so. 

“I’ll give you a few minutes to settle in,” he said, opening her door for her. “Then I’ll join you by the fire. You and I have a lot to talk about.”


	6. New York, New Kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sit back and take in this 16,000+ word chapter. 
> 
> Also, if you're wondering what Betty's dress will look like when she heads out in the city, it looks like [this](https://steampunkopath.tumblr.com/post/135489602368/steampunk-girls-httpswwwtsucosteampunkgirls).

There was a saying: Hearts whither. Souls are forever. 

If there ever was a bond stronger than love, it was the meeting of two souls meant to be one. Love was fickle, and one had to build on it to make it strong, to keep it strong. It was a living thing that needed tending to or it would weaken and die.

Soul pairs—soul_ mates _, were fated to be one. It was how their souls began and it is how they would seek to keep existing, and once met, they were bonded forever, matter fused together and never torn apart. Neither love nor mortality mattered. The challenge, unlike love, was in tempering it.

It was so for the Daemon Bound. 

Romantic love was not a prerequisite. It mattered, not at all, to the Bound. 

Half the tales of the Bound did not speak of romantic partnerships, and Jughead always wondered about that. How did one explain to one’s significant other that they _ weren’t _the most important person in the world to them? It seemed preposterous, but some of the Bound have done it—thrived, in fact. 

It seemed unlikely, but when the Bound learned _ boundaries _, it was the best way to live their lives.

The half that _ did _give in to love wrote of tales rife with both glory and ruin. It seemed to Jughead that to the passionate Bound, everything was aflame. It read almost like a warning: Enter with caution. The benefits of the Bound loving their other was tremendous, but it was a double-edged sword—charged and unpredictable like lightning. 

Jughead wondered if the Daemon Bound can pick a side, or if the Fates decided that ahead of time. His mind was inclined to insist that being Bound to Betty, if they really _ were, _had proven to be beneficial specifically because they were exceptional best friends. 

Very much so. 

But he wondered too, as she sat by the light of the fire, whether they had agency on the matter of their relationship.

There was a time, long ago, when Betty chased his car down a train platform and declared she loved him. She was so young then, filled with unlimited dreams and possibilities. 

He remembered thinking as she grew smaller and the train tracks between them grew lengthier, _ How can she? _with his mouth hung open in disbelief.

He was a boy, perhaps newly a man at 18, from the Southside. He was a street wraith, living in a hovel with his drunken father. He was nothing, even when Charles was telling him he was something. He was already picking pockets when Betty was just learning to walk; he’d gotten beat on by a gang when Betty wasn’t even in corsets; and he’d watched his own father dump a dead body into a river before Betty got her Mark. 

At that moment on the train platform, not only did he feel unworthy, but also that she was _ so young. _

It wasn’t extraordinary, he knew, for a girl her age to be promised to a boy the same age as him. In Locked high society, it seemed to happen every day. Girls were given away the moment they turned 13, but Betty had always balked at the notion, and he, being from the Southside, did not grow up seeing 13 year old girls being married off. 

He believed her wholly deserving of so much more _ because _ she said she deserved more, because she can _ do _ so much more. Her value was not tied to her romantic prospects, so at that moment on the train platform, watching her give her heart to him, he didn’t know what to do with it. He kept telling himself--it was _ her _ choice. Her decision, but at the time, he was quite focused on what _ he _felt about it. 

He couldn’t possibly. It felt disrespectful to love her back. It felt inappropriate, even. He hadn’t even had to think of such things until she told him she loved him.

But then as he settled into the city and tried to write his letters, he had wondered more than once about Betty.

He never wrote about the train platform. He didn’t feel it was necessary. His shortcomings on the matter of his self-worth was not her burden to bear, and no matter how much Locked society told him it was entirely acceptable for an 18 year old to have romantic relations with a 13 year old, he refused to go by that standard. 

He had been young, himself. He didn’t quite know how love was given, taken, or turned away, and it seemed so patronising, anyhow, to tell her that she deserved better than him, even if it was both true and a convenient thing to say. 

So he said nothing, telling her instead of the wonderland he had fallen into, the fantastic world of New Kin City, and how he wished she was there with him, because he missed her. Everyday.

All this was true, especially when he found himself in company he would rather not endure. 

When, amidst the doldrum of lessons and formula at Stonewall, he dared to suggest investigating on the side, no one was adventurous enough to take him up in his suggestions. He felt her absence even more keenly

And while every letter he wrote and sent to Betty kept reappearing in his mailbox, he continued writing them, sending them in the post, and seeing them back. 

It was only two years later when he began to suspect that his visions of Betty maturing and her soft voice in his head responding to his most ponderous questions, were no flights of fancy. 

It was around the time that he began looking into the notion of the Daemon Bound. 

He would eventually get distracted from his research, with Trevor getting killed and his addiction possessing him, but in his moments of lucidity, and then his improving recovery, he would see Betty in his mind’s eye again, and he would learn more. 

Even now he wonders if he hadn’t just convinced himself that this was true when there was absolutely nothing supernatural about their bond. 

It was a sentimental truth—if there ever was such a thing—that in any case, their bond was special. Daemon Bound or not, they knew each other better than they perhaps knew themselves.

Whether they were fated to stay friends or not was an outcome Jughead believed he _ had _ control over, so it should pose little concern. Right now, Jughead only knew one thing: they could hear one another’s thoughts and their Marks looked alike. They were possibly Daemon Bound and she had to know this was something he had in mind.

He had in his hand a book explaining in the most basic way what it meant. It would serve as a proper reference, for surely she would have questions.

Carefully, so as not to seem insane, he explained all this to her, and she listened so intently, it felt a little like he could tell her anything. She had that quality—that she was there to listen and hear one out. 

She seemed hesitant, of course, for talk of bound souls or Fate Others were not subject matters brought up in casual conversation, and he didn’t push. 

As she looked into the fire and he watched the light of flames dancing on her skin, he had to turn his gaze away, because the green of her eyes seemed so overwhelming against the soft glow of the fire. 

“If it’s true,” she began in a quiet tone, “that we’re Bound, does this mean that everything I’ve ever—ever _ felt _ for you, everything we’ve ever felt for each other was a construct of _ fate?” _

Her question struck him, for he’d never asked that, himself. “I can’t answer that question with authority. Nobody can. Does it matter?”

She seemed completely unsatisfied by that response. “I suppose not… I just--I don’t like the path of my life being written for me.”

Of course. Of course she would hate that, because she was a believer in doing things her own way and it was one of her best qualities, but what could he possibly say that would have any value? He knew no more than her on the matter of fate.

“You said you’ve sought answers,” she said, her eyes pleading for him to tell her something. Anything. “You know _ more _ than I. Tell me what _ you _think.”

He sighed, feeling ill-equipped to respond, for he had not thought of this until now. He had been so focused on being connected to her that he hadn’t thought it important to consider the larger implications, but he did have immediate thoughts on the matter and it would have to be enough. “Other Daemon Bound have said: the Bound are like the pieces of a larger life, meant for a higher purpose that no one knows what of. The Bound can exist individually, be great in their own paths, but it always seemed that the Bound were greater together. Betty, I like to think that if we _ were _Daemon Bound, we would have good things ahead of us, but if you read through this book, you’ll know that there are two sides to it, and that being Daemon Bound is not the magic key to a better world. Our lives are not predetermined by this. We make of it what we can and I think the possibilities are endless.”

She seemed surprised by what he said. “I never thought you so optimistic, Jughead.”

“I said there are _ two _sides. The other side is rife with terrible outcomes.”

“Ah, there you are.” Half a smile tilted her lips. She took the book from him, finally, and she read the spine. “Is this the foremost authority on the Daemon Bound?”

He scoffed, softly. “In the ways one would call themselves the foremost authority on the constellations above.”

Her eyebrow arched pointedly in his direction.

“But this book is adequate,” he added, stifling a grin. “It is sensible. Others romanticize, some are more alarmist. I can get you those if you would like—you may prefer them, after all, but—“

Her quiet laughter gave him pause. “You know me, Jughead. I have no patience for nonsense. Poetry and literature have their place. When I want answers, I prefer a more straightforward approach. And it’s impressive enough that you came prepared to throw a book at me.”

He knew Betty. She had an ample amount of scepticism, and her trust had to be earned, but once both those barriers were surpassed, her mind was open to ideas and information. He didn’t think that she needed convincing so much as she needed to _ know. _“So you think I may be right? That we are Daemon Bound?”

She grew quiet, her fingers skimming the letters along the book’s spine. “Over the years, I thought I might have heard your voice in my head. I thought I was imagining it. There was an entire year I barely heard you at all.”

He held his hand out for her and she clasped it. Her grip was tight and he could feel that this was as important to her as it was to him.

If he were to guess, that was probably the year he fell to addiction. “Our thoughts carry. It takes immense effort to create a clear conduit of communication, but for now we can bridge our thoughts when necessary. Our Marks look the same, so our Daemons will likely look the same.”

“Sometimes, I feel her,” Betty said. “My Daemon. She burns hot when I am in danger. Sometimes I dream of a winged creature. And I think I know her name.”

The Daemon’s name was important. It was the only way to call one’s Daemon out. Many Kin lived their entire lives without speaking their Daemon’s name to anyone else, because it was the only way to protect one’s Daemon from being taken. But the Daemon Bound shared Daemons. That was just one among the many things the Bound can do that the other Kin cannot. 

“My Daemon’s name is Elemiah,” Jughead told her, softly. Only Betty can ever hear him utter those words. 

Her eyes grew wide with surprise. 

“When your Daemon emerges,” he continued, “we could find out for sure if we’re Bound, because you can summon _ my _Daemon for help and I can summon yours, without need of the elaborate rituals the Wraith Lords perform to take your Daemon away from you.”

“I think my Daemon’s name is Sabathiel,” she said. “I can feel her, sometimes, but--”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he promised. “The signs are there. Your Daemon will emerge. This week, all you need to do is settle in. I will take a day to show you some of the city.”

He recognized that not only did the city look different, but it's lifestyle was worlds away from what she knew in Riverdale. 

It wasn’t that Riverdale was a small town—that was not the challenge. Betty was a woman who left the safety of her home at night, disguised as a man, sometimes a prostitute, and held her own amongst ruthless gang leaders, murderous men and women, angry mobs, and prizefighting sailors and pimps. The criminal perils of a city would not faze the Betty Cooper he knew. 

The bigger challenge was adjusting to the expectations of the Kin. They were not like the Locked. Here, the Kin lived as Kin. There was no hiding, nor pretending. Betty now had a different set of norms to abide by, one way or another, and Jughead wagered Betty wouldn’t be afraid of that, either, but it was important that he made her understand that the politics and pressures of this society could overwhelm her. 

Unlike the ways of the Locked, Betty couldn’t ignore the demands of the Kin, because in this world, the accomplishments and goals they put value in fell right in step with hers. 

One would think that was a good thing, but if Betty let herself get carried away in its torrent, it could thrust her forward or drown her into its dark depths. 

Her smile, however, was broad and free of worry. “I would love to see the city, and it would please me if you were with me.”

He could think of nothing better than to spend a day with her in the city, both within the Kin boundaries and outside of it. There were wonders to be seen in both worlds, and he imagined that getting some days off work would present little problem for his father. “We will start the day early tomorrow--have a full day.”

“I count the hours.”

He prepared to leave, rising from his seat, but before he could bid her goodnight, she said, “Do you remember all those years ago, when you were leaving Riverdale for New York, the first time?”

Anxiety stirred in the pit of his belly. “I do.”

A small smile lifted the corners of her lips, but her gaze lowered to her hands, then she shifted it back to the fire. “I was young, then. You were the only true friend I had. You must have thought me silly and impossible.”

Betty had always struck him as self-assured and certain of the things she wanted, and to hear her so uncertain tugged at his protective instinct. 

There was an ottoman between her seat and the fire, and he settled himself on it so he could look her in the eyes. She at first seemed surprised by this, and she seemed poised to look away, but he chased her gaze. “I never thought you silly for that. Or impossible. It was the first and only time in my life that anyone had ever said such a thing to me.”

She laughed, softly, but still her eyes flicked between his gaze and the fire. “Was it? No lovers the last six years?”

He couldn’t possibly say, and he was cheeky enough to throw the question right back at her. “A gentleman never kisses and tells. If you tell me yours, I might tell you mine.”

She bit her lip, her eyes suddenly shining mischief. “Oh, isn’t that exquisite? _ Quid pro quo?” _

That he felt a hollowness in his gut at her words was jarring. What had he expected her to say? What had he wanted her to say? Did he expect vehement denials? Proclamations of innocence and inexperience?

But she had always been bold. Always adventurous. He should have been more surprised if she’d _ never. _

The inklings of indignation began to take root, then. Where were these lovers now? Did they not appreciate Betty enough to stay and hold her dear? But he stamped down his outrage. It wasn’t his place. “Perhaps now isn’t the time.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed. “And truly, I digress. Jughead, what I said to you--”

“Was heartfelt,” he finished. “And I thought about it for days. I didn’t know what to say, and at the time, I did not yet know my letters would come back unread.”

She sighed, looking away. “Isn’t that mortifying?”

“No. It was not like that.” He sighed. “I was different, then. I had cares that were beyond the constellation of romantic relationships. I was surviving, and I was grateful for my brother’s care, and for his sister, whose friendship I valued above all else.”

She nodded, sighing softly. “I often forgot that you were living a hard life, Jughead. You were always at Elm, and I hardly ever saw you leaving the house. I had to remind myself that half the time, you were still going home to the Southside, that you still had to live it. I suppose I was too young to be mindful of my privilege.”

“We were _ both _ young _ ,” _he insisted, gently. “And you were… you deserved some landed Lord’s son. Someone with pedigree and refinement. Someone who had been educated his entire life. Betty, I came from the Southside and I lived in a hovel. Even then, knowing Charles was my brother, I never assumed he would entrust his estate to me.”

The touch of her fingers on his lips caught him breathless. “None of that mattered to me. But you’re right. I was young. You, however, were eighteen then.”

Her fingers slipped away and he felt their absence from his skin keenly. “Just turned. There is a world of experience between Just-Turned eighteen to your nineteen _ now, _Miss Cooper, in case you were thinking to point that out to me.”

Her quiet laugh was soothing to his senses. “Some would argue that we were _ both _the perfect age to be promised to one another.”

“Some would argue that would have been a tragedy. A boy of eighteen would have had time to enjoy his childhood, at least for a little while longer, and perhaps even given opportunities to know what they want in their lives, enough to know how to pursue it. Why were girls expected to give all that up? And for what? Matrimonial certainty? Were your dreams not as important as ours?” 

“Perhaps that was why I loved you. Because I knew you looked at me and saw my dreams, outside of what everyone seemed to expect of me.”

He covered her hand with his. “I only know you to be full of aspirations, Betty. Meant for great things.”

“Then perhaps we _ are _Daemon Bound. Fated to be there for each other. That is stronger than the bonds of romantic love, isn’t it?”

He nodded, mutely.

She stood and he rose with her. 

As she showed him to the door and he walked behind her, he found himself resisting the urge to touch a loose strand of hair that had separated from her braid. And as he stepped out of her room, turning to give her one last goodbye, the way her eyes swiftly took him in, from head to toe, coursed pleasure through his veins. 

She bit her lip briefly, and something in the pit of his stomach went wild with unwarranted anticipation. “Goodnight, Jughead.”

_ Say goodnight back. _

He breathed to quiet the tremble in his voice. “Goodnight, Betty.”

The door closed and he fled, walking to the cadence of his swiftly beating heart.

**************

It wasn’t heartbreak, she realized with surprise, that Betty slept with when she went to bed that night. 

Maybe she should not have been so surprised. After all, she had spent years convinced that Jughead had not loved her back that day on the platform, so this friendship he claimed they had did not break her as it would have, had he said such a thing to her so many years ago.

Hope fluttered in the dim recesses of her heart, because of the way he looked at her the past week, at the way he so convincingly implied by word and deed that he saw her differently now, that he hadn’t clung to her childhood image, how he never expressed that he saw her as a sister.

And tonight, unable as she was to contain her desire for him, he had reacted with clear confusion and not rejection. 

She laid her head on her pillow with her mind open to possibilities and an optimism that surprised even herself.

*******************

She dreamed, not of him, but of Sabathiel, staring back at her from the surface of a mirror.

She asked Sabathiel, “What is keeping you?”

But Sabathiel stared back silent, even as Jughead came up beside her to hold her hand.

*******************

When she woke the next morning, she felt rested and refreshed. 

As she readied herself for the day, she was ebullient, giddy at the thought she would spend hours with Jughead in this fascinating new place.

She braided her hair and twisted it into a golden bun, liking how the style lengthened her neck and showed off her cheekbones. She selected one of her favorite dresses--a green puffed-shoulder top, its sleeves fitted nicely down her arms and scalloped at her wrists. The gray lace bust was secured around her throat, haltering and offering a small glimpse of skin along both sides of the cut. Her bustled skirt was a nicely shaded plum and beige. 

With a few tugs of her corset, she felt she had a nice silhouette. 

It was certainly not a dress for formal occasions. When she first wore it in Riverdale, Alice had frowned, liking the way it looked but, by Locked standards, risque and boldly unique, therefore more trouble than it was worth. But here in New York, from Betty’s quick observation of the city, it’s uniqueness just might be celebrated. 

Jughead, in his infinite thoughtfulness and care, had perhaps been blinded to the notion of Bettty actually loving him, still. She would wager that he thought she had grown out of her feelings through the years. 

Perhaps it was for the best. Ultimately, she would want to start from a place where he had forgotten her pigtails and pinafores. 

She pinched her cheeks to pinken them, then as she applied a dab of perfume on her wrists, she bit her lips to redden them. 

She grabbed her gloves and parasol and stepped out into the hallway. It was relatively silent, with the sounds of the busy city filtering through the windows even at this early hour. She wasn’t quite sure where everything was in this house, but she didn’t mind exploring in the least. 

The stairs were winding, and the house had at least three floors, perhaps four. The vertical layout of the structure was uniquely urban, but in spite of its upward design, she recognized that it still had considerable horizontal space for a city home. 

She was on the third floor, and the stairs wound _ up _as well. 

Ever adventurous, she climbed the steps, and when she reached the top, she saw that it led out to the open space of their rooftop, but before one could step outside, there was an enclosure. She could see through the door’s windows, noting unfamiliar equipment, perhaps some laboratory equipment, and on the writing desk, a figure was hunched over--asleep, likely. She might have been snoring. 

Betty did not want to disturb her, so she turned to the doors leading outside. 

As she stepped out onto the roof, she saw that it had a garden, cleverly structured to accommodate herbs, some vegetables, and a good array of flowers and foliage. There was a sitting area to one side, where tea could be taken in cool spring afternoons. 

She walked through the aisles of vegetables, loving the colors of the harvest. She reached the edge of the rooftop and gazed at the skyline, with its tall structures and the ominous Menhir at the center. The aeronautic crafts buzzed and floated around it. 

If she looked closely, a slightly green haze tinted the cool air, like a hint of fog, and it was most dense from the Menhir. From certain angles, it gave the sky a teal shade. 

“It’s spectacular, isn’t it?”

Betty jumped at the voice, and as she whirled around, she dropped her parasol at her feet. 

The girl, perhaps a little younger than her, had blonde hair, but her eyes were unmistakably blue. She wore jodhpurs, and that was about as much as Betty could see, since most of her was covered by a protective lab coat. Her hair was curtailed into two braids, pinned up in her head, presumably to keep them out of the way. This girl, Betty thought, was a scientist. An inventor.

“Did I frighten you?” she asked.

Betty summoned her voice. “Surprised me, more likely. Jellybean?”

She grinned, bowing with a flourish. “My reputation precedes me, it seems. And you must be Betty. Father mentioned you would be staying with us.”

Betty nodded. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I saw the way you were looking at the city. Is this your first time here?”

Nodding, Betty glanced at the skyline once more. “It is more than I’ve ever dreamed of.”

Jellybean sighed and stepped up to the railing beside her. “Sometimes I still cannot believe I live here.”

Given Jughead’s history with his family, Betty could not help but wonder whether Jellybean experienced poverty, herself. It was also possible that she never did. She was young enough that their mother could have situated them better, wherever she had run off to, before Jellybean could remember how hard it was. She could have lived in some small town before this, like Betty. 

“There are so many possibilities in this city,” Jellybean declared. “We are powered by the Menhir, I am constantly told, which is charged entirely by energies emitted by the perfect intersection of multiple vital aether veins beneath the earth and ribbons of thick feromonic fields in the air, but what of the other Kin cities in the world that were not so fortunately placed? Nobody else has anything like it, so it would be beneficial to those other cities to harness other sources or energy.”

Betty’s mind began to churn, inspired by Jellybean’s train of thought. “The Kin seem to use steam, too. Perhaps other Kin cities could utilize such a mechanism.”

Jellybean nodded. “Yes, but we only use steam on a small scale. Using steam to power a city such as this requires a massive infrastructure, the likes of which will take decades to build. A more expedient, less costly source of energy, in my opinion, would be lightning.”

Betty did not know that such a thing was possible. Lightning seemed so powerful and wild. She could not imagine it being contained. “How is it possible to harness lighting?”

Jellybean looked up in the sky. “Nikola Tesla has an idea.”

She’d heard of this name. “The mad scientist?”

Jellybean scoffed. “He is only mad because the coal barons say he is. Lightning energy would remove their power, along with it their wealth. Evil men will do anything to keep what they have, regardless of the harm it does to others. Coal requires the labors of men and children, inhaling toxic fumes everyday of their hard lives. If you see their corpses, their lungs are always black with soot. I wonder what scientist was paid to tell the masses that coal was a viable source of energy when it is irredeemably damaging to living human beings and the air we breathe. It does not take a scientist, honestly. Everyone can see the plumes of black smoke that rise from the factories. That _ cannot _possibly be a good thing.”

Betty couldn’t remember the last time she had such an interesting conversation with a lady. “It behooves me to acknowledge the relevance of your observations, but _ how _can lighting be contained to do for us what we want?”

The spark in Jellybean’s eyes was one of encouraged passion. “Like any other wild animal that you seek to domesticate, you learn its behavior. Lightning is nothing but charged particles, moving in the air, positive and negative ions separating by nature and--also by nature, actively seeking to find one another again. Apart, they are harmless and neutral, but together they are explosive. Lighting--pure, raw energy that can power the world.”

Betty was struck by her words, recalling her discussion with Jughead the night before, of souls divided but hurtling towards one another, fated to be united. “Particle fusion.”

Jellybean’s surprised expression was replaced by a broad grin. _ “Yes. _I love that. That’s brilliant. Particle fusion!”

The sound of a door opening and shutting distracted them both, and they turned in the direction of a pathway. 

“Jellybean,” came Jughead’s voice, emerging from the foliage towards the receiving area. He looked incredibly handsome in a suit of gray and black. It brought out the brilliant blue of his eyes. “Come down to breakfast, won’t you? I’d like you to meet--oh…” He stood at the pathway, momentarily taken aback. “Betty.”

The startled expression on his face, followed by his gaze taking her in, caused an unbearable flush to rise to her face that he was no doubt seeing. “Good morning, Jughead. I hope you don’t mind me exploring your home. I thought I heard spirits up here,” she said, trying to tease her way out of her awkwardness.

He didn’t seem particularly amused by it, but he went towards her, getting down on one knee. Her face grew hotter, especially when he stood and held out her umbrella. “You dropped your parasol.”

What she thought he was doing, she didn’t know, but she took her parasol back and thanked him, because that was all she could think to do.

“We introduced ourselves to one another,” Jellybean said, cutting through the threads of tension. “As you can see. She is as interested in harnessing energy from thunderbolts as I. She has coined the term particle fusion, smart lass. Soon enough, she and I will build an empire of modernised electricity.”

He cast Betty an apologetic look. “Well, if there ever was anyone to encourage mischief, Betty is the genius for you. Please _ don’t _get her struck by lightning.”

Betty grinned. “Won’t that be exquisite?”

It was his turn to blush, and Betty wondered why for a moment, before she remembered that she said a similar thing last night with regard to their personal histories.

“God forbid,” he whispered, offering his arm. “Shall we go to breakfast? We have a busy day, Betty.”

She looped her hand around his arm, looking up at his downturned face. “We do.”

They smiled at each other and electricity skipped down her back at his lopsided grin. 

“I have a busy day, myself,” Jellybean piped, prompting Betty out of her Jughead-induced haze. “If you two would like to know, that is. Or I can leave you two alone. Whichever you prefer.”

The heat rising from Betty’s collar was nearly unbearable.

Jughead rolled his eyes, emitting a soft scoff as he began to lead the way back to the stairwell. 

As they went, Jellybean shed her coat and left it by her laboratory door. “Will mother be joining us?”

Betty could feel the muscles in Jughead’s arm tensing. “I don’t know. Will she?”

“She was at the dinner table last night. Unless she left very early or is sleeping in, she will be here for breakfast.”

Betty felt his hand cover hers and her fingers twitched in response. 

His face, for the most part, remained impassive. “I did not realize she was back from Philadelphia.”

Jellybean nodded. “She returned yesterday. She was asking after you and father could barely look her in the eyes. What have you two scoundrels been up to?”

Betty eyed Jughead’s expression. They had not discussed his mother at any length or whether Gladys even knew she was arriving with Jughead. She began to wonder if Gladys knew Jughead had inherited a fortune.

_ Mother will have questions. _

That thought was most certainly _ not _hers. 

She tugged gently at his sleeves. “I can stay in my room for a bit. Unpack my trunk--”

He shook his head. “Come down with us, Betty. I should like for mother to finally meet you.”

She looked for any sign that he was being compelled by manners rather than a true willingness to confront whatever hurdle she thought they were facing. Her inquisitive expression was met by the softening of his eyes. 

“You are more than welcome here. I would like for you to consider this your home.”

“And your mother?”

“She is a complicated being, but she will be glad to have you here.”

Jellybean grinned. “People are afraid of her, and perhaps for good reason, but she is merely being protective of her own. She will like you.”

That remained yet to be seen. She turned to Jughead for his thoughts on the matter, but he stayed silent as they made their way back into the house. 

***********

Betty could see how people would find Gladys intimidating. 

Her resting expression, it seemed, was not one of open acceptance and cheer. When Betty walked into breakfast with Jughead, Gladys had looked up from her daily broadsheet, a whiff of surprise arching her eyebrow. 

She looked briefly at FP, who tilted his chin and stared her down--a challenge, no doubt, to say what she had to say of this development. 

Gladys was by no means ordinary. She sat at the head of the table, for one--a place traditionally occupied by the proverbial man of the house. She wore a waistcoat and trousers, though she maintained a bit of a lacy bustle. Her boots that came up to her knees had thick silver heels. All this, but for her heel, was in pure, unrelenting black. Even her hair, black as night like Jughead’s, was barely tied back, broad curls allowed to spill down her shoulders.

She was magnificent and Betty was a touch terrified.

This was a woman who did not need alter-egos to express who she was and what she intended to do.

Betty found herself a stark contrast, all colors and gold, but she straightened her shoulders and kept her chin held aloft. She could tell, just by looking at Gladys, that she would not respect wilting flowers. 

“You did not tell me we had a guest, FP. I would have asked Kevin to put out the fine china.” Gladys’s voice was bereft of the gentleness of a woman of her station. It was a flat drawl--sarcastic at best, and she eyed Betty with barely veiled suspicion. 

FP lifted a shoulder, his crooked smile seemingly meant to shield him from her steely expression. “They came in late last night. I did not want to wake you.”

“Mother,” Jughead said, cutting through the tension. “This is Elizabeth Cooper, from Riverdale. Betty, this is my mother, Gladys Jones.”

At this, Gladys’ surly expression morphed into amusement, though Betty would hardly consider that a good thing, coming from her. “Elizabeth Cooper--Alice’s child. My goodness. Weren’t you a little thing before? Look at you now. A vision. Even more lovely than Alice ever was, and everyone went wild for her back in our salad days. Then again, perhaps your more genteel and sheltered upbringing obliterated any likelihood of your inheriting Alice’s rougher edges. She grew up in the Southside, did she tell you?”

She deferred from mentioning that she was not as sheltered as Gladys thought she was. “She mentions it on occasion,” Betty replied, instead. “When it suits her.”

Gladys chuckled. “That sounds like her.” She gestured to the seat beside her. “Please. Have a seat and join us for breakfast.”

Jughead pursed his lips, hesitating ever so slightly at pulling back the chair Gladys had designated for Betty, but he did it and she whispered her thanks as she took her place. He thereafter settled himself on the chair beside hers. 

FP’s own eyebrow arched, and without a word, took what looked like a folder of documentation from the seat beside him and handed it across the table at Jughead. Clearly, that was Jughead’s usual place at the table, otherwise. 

Sighing, Jughead took the folder and set it aside. 

Gladys buttered her toast. “What did you have to do to get Alice’s permission to come here? Deceit? Blackmail? _ Murder?” _

Jughead shot her a deadly look. _ “Mother.” _

“Reason,” Betty said before Gladys could respond to him. “Jughead’s idea. I would have resorted to deceit, myself. Blackmail could have been an option, but I would have toed the line at murder. Mother is not so easy to kill.”

Gladys’ lopsided grin broadened and she wagged her butterknife at Betty. “Ah! There’s that Southside heritage! Not such a delicate flower after all. And your brother? Jughead’s revered teacher and sometimes father-figure--”

“He passed away a few months ago.”

Gladys did look genuinely sorry. “My condolences to you and your family. And to you, Jughead. I know he meant a lot to you, dear. Is that what sent you to Riverdale? News of his death?”

Jughead began to pile his plate with food. “Among other things.”

Gladys touched Betty’s arm lightly. “Forgive me for asking, but what of you and your mother? Have they found an heir to his fortune yet? I know the Locked would not allow women to inherit.”

Betty could only conclude that Jughead had _ not _told his mother about what had transpired on his visit to Riverdale. “It has been dealt with. Mother and I are well taken-cared of.”

“Good. And I suppose Alice is plotting your bright future with some landed, wealthy baron.” She slathered her toast with jam. “Shouldn’t be that hard. You are positively beautiful and any man--”

_ “Mother,” _ said Jughead through grit teeth, piercing a slice of ham with undue force. “The hope is for her to get reintroduced to Kin society, so that she may do as she pleases and _ not _be obligated to conform to what the Locked expects of her.”

Gladys seemed even more intrigued by this. “Is that what you want, Ms. Cooper? To be independent and to live amongst the Kin?”

Betty nodded. “It is. And please, call me Betty.”

“I shall. I’m afraid I might like you--much to your peril. My approval is not an easy burden to bear.”

“I’m sure.” Betty was not joking in the least. Gladys would not suffer fools, either. She had already developed a grudging respect for this woman who had been a polarizing figure in her memories. She remembered how Jughead had barely mentioned her, growing up, and it was only later that he told Betty about the mother who had abandoned him and left him, a child, to a useless drunk. She hated Gladys then, because she knew how Gladys’ leaving had hurt Jughead so badly, but then years later, coming back to rescue them from poverty and now seemingly fusing them back into this unit, flawed but strong, should at least be grounds for reconsideration. 

Gladys tilted a grin. “Are you?”

“Mothers were never so easy for me.” 

“Oh, child. Alice must’ve wept when you left her.”

Betty could not tell if Gladys was relishing Alice’s misery or if she was actually giving Betty a compliment. Gladys could very well know that FP at least had some sort of relationship with Alice before Gladys and he married, then again, Gladys sounded like she had a grudging respect for Alice, herself. Betty had to wonder what Gladys was thinking at this moment, appraising Betty like a prized horse. 

FP chuckled, shaking his head as he cut into the eggs on his plate. “Gladys, I’d ask you to let Betty be. Jughead has her under his wing. That ought to be enough.”

“Yes. I suppose.” She sat back on her seat and finally went back to her paper, the interrogation over. “But you and I will speak again, won’t we, Betty? Without these boys to interrupt our fascinating conversation.”

The prospect of sitting down with Gladys alone both intrigued and terrified Betty, but it seemed Gladys had stopped circling Betty for now, and she could not help but breathe a soft sigh of relief. 

“Mother holds a seat in the higher echelons of New Kin City’s government,” Jellybean said, brightly. Proudly. “She represents Guildsman Hall--essentially an ambassador for the Peacedealers, where Mayor McCoy holds office.”

Betty was incredibly impressed but Gladys scoffed and waved her words away. 

“JB is overselling. I can hardly go straight to Mayor McCoy for anything. That privilege goes to Guildsman Lodge.”

Jellybean huffed. “He is not your manager.”

“No, but we all have to answer to him in one way or another.”

“He listens to you more than he listens to his wife,” FP pointed out. 

Gladys tossed Betty a knowing wink. “That is what Mrs. Lodge wants everyone to think. Speaking of Hermione--she sent us invitations to her daughter’s birthday soiree, but there was a separate one for you, Jughead. Signed by her daughter, no less…”

Jughead gave a tired sigh but said nothing.

Betty wasn’t the least bit surprised that the daughters of powerful men and women might want to find favor with the son of the ambassador who had the Mayor’s ear. As much as it pained her to think about Jughead being matched with other women, she was glad of the caliber of ladies others thought he was fit for. He deserves to be regarded with respect. “Is she lovely? Intelligent, even?”

“Whip smart and beautiful,” Jellybean said. “I know that because she thinks Jughead ridiculous. Her mother probably made her sign it.”

Betty frowned. Jughead was _ not _ridiculous to her at all. 

“Oh, don’t say it like that,” Jughead said. “She does not think me ridiculous. She is a friend who would never take me seriously, thank God. There’s a difference. You might get along with her, Betty.”

Betty demurred from responding. She didn’t know if she was ready to have any friends outside of Jughead, just yet. 

“Are you introducing her to people today, then?” Gladys asked. 

Betty felt anxiety pool in the pit of her stomach, which was immediately eased by Jughead’s definitive, “God, no. I will show her the city--its most interesting qualities, at least, both from the Kin side and the Locked. There is much to see and appreciate. There is no need to throw Betty to the wolves, at least without _ some _form of preparation.”

“Wolves,” Betty repeated. 

FP nodded. “They can be. At the end of the day, the Kin are just as ruthless as the Locked. We are all made of the same stuff underneath.”

“I’d wager Betty would relish the fight, won’t you, my dear?” Gladys reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Betty’s ear. “If you are anything like Alice, there is ferocity beneath that golden shine and your green doe eyes.”

Betty doubted that Gladys’ gentle caresses could be considered tenderness on any level. This was an assertion of dominance and Betty was not going to have it. She didn’t call it out, but she discreetly let her loose hair fall back where it once was. Nobody else noticed it, but Gladys might have, her eye twitching slightly at the challenge. 

“You presume too much, mother,” Jughead said in a clipped tone. 

Gladys shrugged but did not dispute it. 

FP began to talk about New York’s attractions, places that he would recommend Jughead bring her to. Jellybean contributed her own recommendations and Betty gladly engaged. She noted how Jughead listened to it all in silence, acknowledging FP’s or Jellybean’s suggestions on rare occasions. 

It was Gladys who first begged her leave from the table. As everyone stood on cue, Gladys gave Betty one last look. 

“I am glad you’re here, Betty. Don’t let these troublemakers convince you otherwise.” Gladys flashed Jughead and FP a grin and Betty watched her leave the breakfast area. 

As they all settled back down to continue breakfast, Betty looked over her shoulder to see Gladys go. 

Kevin’s figure appeared, following her out and handing her a hat as tall as a man’s, which she tucked under her arm the same way Jughead did his. Their shadows faded into the hallway. 

“Well, that went better than I expected,” FP said, dipping some toast in his egg. 

Jughead shot FP a pointed glare. “Thanks to Betty. You hardly said a thing to curtail mother.”

FP scoffed. “Curtail Gladys? I wouldn’t dare. If I had been so bold, she would have intensified her efforts out of pure spite.”

Betty realized she hadn’t even started breakfast. She took her spoon and used it to crack an egg. “Her conversation was--” she searched for the word “--_ invigorating.” _

Jellybean grinned, obviously pleased by Betty’s positive take on it. “That is one way to describe it.”

“Mother likes to provoke,” Jughead said tiredly. “I apologize. I should have prepared you for that, but I was a little preoccupied by other concerns.” He exchanged meaningful looks with FP, who sighed and shook his head. 

Betty could only suppose it had to do with Jughead inheriting Charles’s estate and not telling his own mother of it. 

“It is what she is used to at work,” Jellybean said. “Diplomats and politicians are constantly sharpening their knives. They take every opportunity they can to collect information that they may use against each other.”

Jughead gave an irritable scoff. “I wish she would leave the knife sharpening in City Hall. She is home. We are family.”

“And your mother is your mother,” FP said. “It wasn’t City Hall that made her that way, it was the survival instinct she was raised with.”

“I was raised with that same instinct. You do not see me getting under people’s skins upon introduction.”

“You kept better company for longer than she did.” FP looked pointedly at Betty. “And so you learned to smoothen the jagged edges.”

Betty refrained from mentioning that she liked Jughead’s edge on many occasions. 

They finished breakfast and FP said that while Jughead could take this day to show her the city, he may summon Jughead in a pinch should urgency necessitate it. 

Jughead seemed resigned to the inevitable. “Of course. And exactly what do you expect Betty to do as I race off? Wander around Ladies’ Mile as I attend to my job?”

It was mildly off-putting, to be the subject of discussion as if she weren’t there, but she knew this wasn’t so much about her as it was FP’s intrusion into his supposed day with her. “There is no need to worry about me. I can find my way.” 

“Someone will be sent to fetch you, Betty,” FP said, taking up the newspaper that Gladys had left behind. “You will be well taken cared of in such an event.”

Jughead simmered in silence and Jellybean went on to complain about their lab supervisor at her work place and how he kept asking her to fetch tea. 

Betty had an infinite number of questions she wanted to ask Jellybean about working and getting paid, but she curtailed her excitement as she tried to be sensitive to Jughead’s mood. 

At the end of breakfast, Betty told Jellybean that she would love if they can talk again. 

“Being employed--it sounds enriching,” Betty told her. “I could listen to you talk about working all day.”

Jellybean tucked on her hat and smiled. “It loses its shine right quick, once you are required to attend and stay within the prescribed hours, but I am fortunate for doing what I love. We will talk again, Betty. Enjoy your day out in the city!”

Kevin appeared with a briefcase and Jellybean thanked him as she took it and she was escorted to the front doors, where a carriage was waiting for her. 

Betty wondered if there were secret doors that Kevin slipped in and out of, for he always seemed to appear out of thin air and vanish without a trace. 

FP prepared himself to leave as well. “Will you need Marmaduke to bring you around the city? You are on-call, after all.”

Jughead jammed his hat on his head. “We shall take our chances with public transport. When you see him at work, tell him I had matters to attend to. I know he has some papers to push, anyhow. Fancy a walk, Betty?”

“I’d be delighted.” Betty slipped on her gloves and held her parasol as Jughead escorted her out of the house and onto the sidewalk. 

Carriages drove past in the street and people walked briskly by. Occasionally, a Daemon would be perched on someone’s shoulder, shrunken to fit, while sometimes, they were large and lumbered about, worn by their wielders, transporting what looked like spectral materials.

“There’s work to be done to harness aether and feromonic fields,” Jughead explained. “And it can only be done in Daemon form. It’s specialized work. Laborers such as these have learned to spend extended periods of time wearing their Daemons where most of us can only handle it in short bursts. Daemons are meant to fight malignant spirits, not do labor, but I suppose the human condition strives to adapt.”

Betty watched the Daemons work, relishing the open lives of the Kin around her. 

Jughead led her to the street corner and turned left down Second avenue. “There is plenty to see in Locked New York City. We will start there, if that pleases you.”

Betty would be pleased by anything in this strange and wondrous city. She could stand on this very corner and spend hours watching the fascinating chaos around her. 

A cable car stopped and Jughead held his hand out for hers. She fought down the bloom of heat that rose from her neck at such a public display of familiarity, but it appeared no one cared, and that he was merely holding his hand out to assist her onto the cable car. 

Commuters piled out while Jughead firmly led her onto the transport, where he secured her a seat and he stood in the space in front of her, seemingly to shield her from the rough rush of bodies. She looked over her shoulder through the transparent windows. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, containing the excitement in her voice. 

He smirked. “You’ll see.”

*****************

The cable brought them three avenues across and some three blocks down, where Jughead brought them to a train station, its rail perched high above the streets. This, in itself, was a wonder to Betty. Getting into a train elevated above everyone for a relatively short ride, with stops in between, seemed so cosmopolitan. 

They climbed the steps to the station and waited on the train platform. The brilliant rays of the sun prompted Betty to pop her parasol open. The rim of Jughead’s hat shielded his face, but she offered him some shade by stepping closer and holding her parasol high enough to accommodate his hat.

He acknowledged her care with a small grin, staying within the shade she offered, which kept them within close proximity of each other. 

He dug into his pocket and brought out his watch, clicking it open with deft fingers. “The train should be by in a few minutes. You have not said much since we first rode the cable car.”

Her gaze continued to take in the sights. “What is there to say? There is so much to see and observe already. I thought it best to observe and say very little. I want to savor every moment.”

His eyes scanned the platform and for a moment, it looked like he was doing as she was. Observing. 

She observed _ him _, and she realized that they were close enough that she could smell that hint of soap on his skin. He didn’t, however, seem bothered by their proximity in the least. 

“I remember having that sense of wonder,” he finally said. “When I first got here. And when I wrote you those letters, I described all of it in detail.”

She watched his lips move, momentarily. Indulging herself. “Did you keep those letters? Or did you discard them when you realized that they would never get delivered?”

“They are in a box under my bed. I never stopped writing them to you.”

Her heartbeat quickened at the notion that he never stopped _ thinking _about her and she had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. “I would like to read them, then. If they were all for me, that is. I suppose you could have been writing to someone else at certain points.”

“No, they were all for you.” He said this softly, sighing as he looked back at the yet empty rails. “But perhaps some of them were rather bleak. Not all days were like this--cheery and pleasant. There were dark days and I felt like you were the only one I could talk to. Of course, at that time I already knew you weren’t going to get my letters so maybe there was a sense of safety in that.”

There was a haunted look in his eyes as he said this, and she felt instinctively that something terrible had happened to him. She was half certain that his dead partner and his metal-braced arm had something to do with it, but she wasn’t going to push. The last time she inquired about his partner, he had shut down. “I should like to hear about your good and bad days, alike. That is what I am here for.”

His gaze softened, and she would have pressed her hand to his heart had the train whistle not filtered through the air. 

People started to step closer to the edge of the platform in anticipation of the train’s arrival. 

“Here we go,” Jughead said, putting out his arm for her to take. 

She immediately shut her parasol and braced for the rush. 

****************

The train took them some thirty blocks down, and Jughead had made certain that she sat by a window so she could see out of the train to the sights below. The scenery was always fascinating. 

When they arrived at their stop, they joined the egress to the doors, and it was a steady pace to street level, where Betty had a moment to breathe on the sidewalk. 

“I thought we should start at midtown,” Jughead said. “And work our way back up the rest of the day. We have a few hours yet before lunch. Depending on what we feel like, we may have a sit down or we may opt for something lighter.”

Betty could not help but laugh. “Jughead Jones, we just had breakfast and you are already making plans for lunch.”

“Now you know my secret.”

“Secret?”

“That I am always hungry.”

The way he tilted his chin and grinned while saying it induced a hot flush within Betty, though thankfully, she did not feel it rise up her collar this time. “I should like to sit at a restaurant with you, but won’t that cause a scandal?”

Jughead scoffed. “New York is too busy to care about the affairs of a lady and her escort. Be that as it may, I know just the thing for when we are ready for lunch. But first, let us get ourselves to the Locked side of the city.”

He led her down the busy street, and one block down, she found herself at the top of a wide stairwell that opened up to the ground underneath. 

She eyed Jughead askance as she stood to the side, letting the rush of busy Kin pass them by. “What is down there?”

“A gateway,” Jughead replied. “To New York City. There are several of them throughout New Kin. They were first established for the Peacedealers, so we can come and go where necessary to attend to our duties. Most of our work happens in New York amongst the Locked, but as the Kin grew in number and more and more of us took on more conventional work, even seeking employ with the Locked, these gateways became vital to the continued existence of our people.”

“And the Locked do not stumble through this?”

“Not unless they know where and how to look. There are sentinels at every port to watch out for any unauthorized crossers.”

Her investigative mind noted his terminology. “Unauthorized? Are there ‘authorized’ crossers that aren’t Kin?”

Jughead nodded. “A few--Seers, mostly. Locked, in some cases. You’ll see. Shall we cross?” He gestured towards the stairwell. 

Nodding, she began to descend. As she sank into the crowd, she followed the flow of people, all headed in the same direction. The crowd loosened as the passageway opened up to a wide open space and the people spread out.

The subterranean chamber was larger beneath, with a row of revolving doors that spanned an entire block. They looked similar to the revolving door at the Grand Central station.

She could not see what was on the other side. 

Jughead tapped her shoulder and led her to one of the doors, which he simply pushed into and disappeared. She followed after him through the exact same door, afraid that taking a different door might take her to a different place. 

When she appeared on the other side, it looked exactly like it did coming in, where there was a passageway to a set of stairs going up to street level. 

It was incredible to see just how many Kin were moving through this portal, doing their business amongst the Locked. 

“There are so many of us,” she said in a breathless whisper. 

Jughead nodded, offering his arm to her, which she took without pause in their step. “There are.”

It occurred to her that some men might find that fact compelling. She was surprised no one was trying to take advantage of the powers of the Kin to take control of the Locked. It took no stretch of the imagination for anyone to believe that the Kins’ way of life may be the better way, but it was also true that many of the Locked would be resistant to the notion that half the population may discover independent thought and income through the ways of the Kin.

She could think of many daughters of Locked men who would relish the concept of being able to plan their lives without the shadow of a marriage to hamper them. 

As they climbed the steps, she saw through the wide opening at the top of the stairs the spectral veil shimmering in the air between the Kin and Locked worlds. 

People walked through it without pause, and Betty supposed that when one did it every day, it became part of one’s routine. 

Jughead led them through, and as they stepped onto the other side, Betty felt the difference immediately. 

There were even _ more _people on the streets of New York and the heat radiating from the ground felt thicker. She could spy plumes of dark smoke rising in the sky and the noise around her was discordant. 

The crowds here were quite well dressed, but interspersed within the expensively decked men and women were the laborers who were either passing through or actively working to keep the surrounding area hospitable to the rich clientele. 

“Come along. Let us take a chaise further down. Our destination is at 24th street,” Jughead said, letting a street footman hail their transport. 

As soon as one pulled up the curb, the footman pulled open the carriage door, holding his hand out for Betty. Jughead flipped him a coin, which distracted him, and Jughead helped Betty up himself. As soon as the door closed, the carriage rolled. 

Betty eyed Jughead questioningly and he cast her an apologetic smile.  
“It is rougher in New York City. What may seem like a gesture to help may lead to the picking of your pockets.”

“You forget I’ve traversed the Southside at night.”

“Not as a lady of means.”

That did give her pause. It was enough for her to reorient herself to the situation. She admitted that she was slightly out of her element in both sides of her current reality. She needed time to acclimate and allow Jughead to help her in the journey. 

There was much to see, with the chaise giving her a broader view of the streets and buildings surrounding them. Betty could not help but peer up in the skyline. 

“Everything is so tall.”

“The buildings add height each year.”

Betty let her eyes sweep the streets, too. She watched children sell newspapers, their little voices piercing the air. Organ grinders filled the street with cheery music, while pretzel vendors held up their sticks and shoestring peddlers waved their wares at their casual audience. 

Occasionally, a messenger boy would zip by on his bicycle, screaming at pedestrians who were in his way. Rag carters plodded along at an easier pace, dragging their carts of fat canvas bags, filled to bursting with both clean and dirty rags. There were young and old bootblacks, some working in tandem and others in competition, but there was no shortage of people wanting their shoes shined, so competition seemed friendly. 

Betty could spot the chimney sweeps from afar, small children dark with soot, and crossing sweepers, with their distinct brooms. 

She and Jughead never talked about his childhood at any length. Every once in a while he would mention details, often quaint stories about the small blessings amidst his poverty. It wasn’t a complete picture, by any means, but Betty had always refrained from asking because she could feel how careful he himself tread.

He was young, then. The self-assured man beside her now was better equipped to speak of his past. 

“Did you have to do any of these jobs when you were younger?” she asked.

Jughead shrugged. “I shined shoes for a spell, but it was never as lucrative as picking pockets. I was a great many things before Charles found me. I worked for a resurrectionist for a while, helping dig those graves, collected bets on the streets, sold stolen goods, and I might have secured employment on a boat if Charles hadn’t taken me in.” 

His past life seemed so far removed from what he was now, and she couldn’t imagine that Gladys secured her position by broadcasting their true family history. Betty would have to ask Jughead about that at another time. 

As they rode past the 30th street into the twenties, Betty noted the thinning of laborers and a marked number of well-dressed women. 

They drove past 25th street and Betty immediately knew that this part of New York was not meant for the poor. Even the street vendors were well-dressed and well-mannered, offering polite encouragement to their more affluent clientele. 

Women were walking and traveling in groups, and men and women walking in pairs were common enough, often with intimidating chaperones walking behind them. 

Betty took in the shops lining the streets--clothiers, cobblers, candlemakers, perfumers, stationary sellers, and restaurants. Many of them. 

“Are you taking me shopping?” Betty teased as bright young women’s laughter filtered through the air. 

Jughead chuckled. “Only if you want to. There are many fascinations along this row without need of buying anything, and you might like the bookstore, for instance, or the antique shop, but that can come after our first stop.”

They finally stopped at 14th street, where Betty found herself staring at a massive structure. She looked up at the carved masonry and the large arches decorating the facade. Men were coming in and out of the twenty foot doors.

“The Astor Library,” Jughead said behind her. “It is a building full of knowledge, yes, but there are so many curiosities and exhibits to see inside. There are lovely museums along 70th street, but I thought it practical to start from lower Manhattan and work our way back up. What do you think?”

“It is splendid,” she breathed. “I don’t see any women. Will I cause a scandal being here?”

He smirked. “Mayhaps, but the library is a reputable establishment. It will not ruin you.”

“Oh, hang my reputation. I wish to see books.”

Jughead gestured to the steps. “After you.”

***********************

Their walk through the library was wrought with curious stares and whispers, but Betty did spy women among the shelves and tables, and they would lock eyes with one another in defiant solidarity. 

Betty stared at paintings and busts of distinguished gentlemen and the occasional stately woman whose father or husband likely gave a large sum of money to the establishment. Half the books were by permission only, but the other half they were allowed to touch offered a variety of topics. 

Betty was well aware that she could not just take a book and start reading one, but the very notion of having free access to all of it was worth savoring. Rare books were encased and the map room was a marvel. There was a cabinet of curiosities deeper and higher up in the library, cheekily showcasing “cursed” objects and wares supposedly collected by wealthy adventurers from far-off lands.

Betty had her doubts about whether they were properly acquired or, more likely, pillaged. 

They spent over two hours exploring all three floors of the establishment, and when they stepped out, Betty longed to go back in. 

But Jughead claimed there was more to see, and having enjoyed the library, she could not wait to see more of the city. 

They walked up to the twenties at a leisurely pace, and Betty found herself enchanted by emporiums filled with a multitude of merchandise, the likes of which she’d never seen in Riverdale. It was not about _ what _ so much as it was about _ how much. _The variety was vast. There were cobblers and book merchants, perfume stores and stationery, watch peddlers and dressmakers, stores that specialized in various wares: hats, pens, coats, purses, fine china, and linens. 

Jughead called it the Ladies’ Mile, a swath of New York blocks where women can safely shop, eat, and socialize in public, unaccompanied by men. Betty relished the loud laughter as well as the intimacy in which the ladies gathered in groups. 

To be out in the open, unhampered by the pressures of men and their dictates seemed like such a luxury, and perhaps it was, for there was no doubt the women that walked these paved streets were privileged and rich. 

Be that as it may, Betty did find the window displays and store arrangements fascinating. She indulged herself trying on some hats, which Jughead seemed to find amusing. 

“Now you know where the wealthy come to replenish their wardrobes,” Jughead said, who had somehow managed to secure the duty of holding her parasol and purse. It delighted Betty that he didn’t seem to mind it at all.

She scoffed and said, softly, lest anyone heard her. “I highly doubt any of these women have actually ran out of hats.”

They glanced furtively at a group of ladies--whose hats were already perfectly fashionable and likely durable--happily selecting new ones to purchase. 

“Trends are fickle in the city,” Jughead said, grinning. 

Betty turned to the looking glass, readjusting her hat and sighing. “Do I look like a country bumpkin in mine? Should I find something more cosmopolitan?”

“You look perfect the way you are.” 

It struck her that he’d given her a compliment and she was so astonished by it that she looked at him and saw his face grow red, as if he himself were surprised by what had spilled out of his mouth. He hastily turned away, grumbling that while his own hat did not need to be replaced, he might need a new scarf in the haberdashery next door.

“Winter is quite over,” she said, still breathless with her surprise. 

“Which is why they sell such an accessory at more affordable prices,” he replied. 

He was right about the scarves being cheaper, but the styles were not to his liking. 

She did not, after giving it more thought than it warranted, believe he actually had need of one. 

As they came in and out of shops, there were stores where Jughead wandered off on his own, which gave Betty enough time to find something for him--just a little token to give him for taking her out today. 

She selected a fountain pen and a bottle of ink when Jughead was not looking and she felt extremely satisfied with herself for managing it in stealth. 

There were rows of small restaurants and cafes for weary shoppers to sit and sup, and while Betty did not feel much like wasting her time sitting still, she did not want Jughead to be hungry. She asked if he would like to pause for lunch. 

“I do, but there are better places to eat, and it is not here.”

Her interest was immediately perked. Food, she thought, was bound to be a different adventure. “What did you have in mind?”

“We can purchase pretzels, have them in the carriage ride back, then I have another thing to show you before we sit and sup. How does that sound to you?”

“Splendid!” It sounded so spontaneous, even if she knew that he had probably planned the entire day, but it was nothing like she’d ever heard, living among the Locked. 

In Riverdale it was about basking in lazy boats, sunning on the riverbank, sitting around tea tables and watching young men sing while some young lady played an instrument. There seemed to be a lot of paint drying, as well, observing ladies as they showed off their artistic “talents” to an audience whose primary purpose was to select dutiful wives for their sons. The most exciting thing in Riverdale had been the yearly fall harvest, where the surrounding farmers laid out their spoils to show off and sell, culminating in a festive ball at the plaza. 

While _ that _had its moments, Betty felt Riverdale and its surrounding towns lacked a lot in variety.

As planned, they purchased their pretzels from the street vendor--Jughead bought three, because he wanted two for himself, and on the carriage back, had their snack. Betty had never had a pretzel before and she found it surprisingly filling. The bread was dense and Betty suspected, meant to feed a man doing heavy labor. What she couldn’t finish, Jughead polished off. 

“Lord,” she muttered as he inelegantly chewed the remains of her snack. “Your appetite has not abated in the least.”

“Should it?” he asked, mouth full and refreshingly unbound by etiquette. 

She missed this aspect of him--the one who wasn’t quite so polished. Some crumbs had stayed on his cheek and she delicately brushed them off. His eyes fluttered slowly at her touch, but he showed no surprise and he thanked her softly.

They stopped in front of what Jughead called the Metropolitan Museum of Art, housed as it was at the Dodworth Building.

“Or as I call it, New York’s love letter to Rome,” Jughead said, escorting her up the steps of the museum. 

If Betty thought the library interesting, this exhibit was a marvel in anthropology and art. There was a Roman sarcophagus--a marble tomb cast with garlands of oak and what seemed to Betty to be angels. The description, however, described the four winged figures at each corner as _ Victories, _ and the two cherubic faces supporting the garlands as _ erotes, _Gods and Goddesses of love and “intimate relations”. 

She kept her comments about this description to herself, afraid that she could not speak of such things out loud without scandalizing the lady nearby. She did, however, comment at how the donor, one American named J. Abdo Debbas, must be so rich as to give such an artifact away so easily. 

“The social currency, I’m told, is worth the extravagance,” Jughead replied. “I heard he will be appointed American Vice Consul at Tarsus.”

“Ah, so that is how one is appointed to such things.”

He laughed, quietly so as not to disturb the general reverence with which visitors seemed to conduct themselves. “Did you think such things determined by merit? Experience, mayhaps? Knowledge, I dare say?”

She giggled. “Silly me.”

He bit his lip to keep from laughing louder. He let her lead, which she took full advantage of, knowing he would not be far behind. 

They came upon the works of Anthony van Dyck, a portraitist of wide acclaim, and Nicolas Poussin, an artists with a distinctly baroquian flair, his murals of Roman conquests and fantastical deities and demigods spanning entire walls. One Giovanni Battista Tiepolo preferred Biblical battles, earthbound and divine. 

But it was in a much quieter section of the museum that Betty and Jughead found themselves staying the longest. They had descended two flights of stairs, the lights low and the floors seemingly devoid of sound. 

Betty could hear voices coming from somewhere else, but this subterranean level seemed so vast that she could see no one else. Here the paintings and sculptures were that of the Kin and their Daemons. 

The subject of each portrait, she realized, was accompanied by their Daemon, either small and perched on them like pets, or large and overwhelming behind them. 

“Is this part of the museum sanctioned?” Betty asked, breathlessly, staring up at the names--the Gauxcavins and Armentiers, the McDougals and Featherstons, the Chimamandas and Ọyáwálés, the Fernándezes and Cabreros, the Buchsbaums and Dreyfusses, and the Zhāngs and Matsudas. 

The magnificence and diversity of imagery was both astounding and enlightening. The Kin existed all over the world, and given the background scenery in many of the portraits, many of them were gathered in this city. 

She turned to Jughead, awed by the display. “We are from all over the world. From so many cultures.”

Jughead nodded. “We are, and I wanted to show you this one, in particular.” He took her by the hand, and while Betty blushed at the familiarity, she relished it as well, gripping his hand tighter. 

He led her to a painting of a Chinese woman in glorious battle, her men’s armor broadening her strong body, her short hair coming loose from its masculine ties, while her Daemon, a dragon, raged beside her. 

_ “Hua Mulan,” _ Jughead said, his eyes taking in the details of the woman’s armor, weaponry, and the Mongol invaders she engaged in fierce battle. “She is a legend in China, and the Locked speak of her as a myth, when in fact, she was very real. She was Kin, and she was 18 when she joined the Locked army and steadily rose in the ranks. Her journals spoke of how she _ never _knew her Daemon before her later battles with the armies of Genghis Khan, so that would put her at 20 or 21 before her Daemon emerged.”

Betty’s awe of this legend slowly got overshadowed by the burning feeling behind her eyes, but she blinked back her tears. She felt overwhelmingly loved by this gesture, because Jughead knew without her telling him how much the elusiveness of her Daemon weighed on her. 

She managed to smile through the tightening in her throat. “Do you advise, then, that I march off to war against conquering invaders?”

“You already know how to dress like a man.”

She grinned up at him and he smiled down at her upturned face. 

“Daemons come when you need them most,” he said. “You have been strong and capable of so many things that you have no need of her quite yet.” 

“What if I never do?”

“We all will need something or somebody at some point in our lives.”

It was an interesting emotion, Betty thought, to be drawn so compellingly to a man who so openly admired her for her independence and strength, especially given that Jughead had to swoop in and save her and her mother from ruination. 

His gaze flickered momentarily but he did not look away, his expression one of bewilderment and wonder. She could see his gaze taking her in, a question brimming from his eyes and moving his lips, but a sound cut through the intimate silence and Jughead immediately stepped a modest distance away, his hands clasped behind his back. 

Betty felt the absence of his skin touching hers, the air cooling where his warmth used to be. 

“This museum is in a park,” he said, quickly. “I don’t know if you noticed coming in here.”

She had to reorient herself to this new thread of conversation that seemed to emerge so awkwardly. “A park?”

Jughead nodded. “Above ground is a park. The Locked cleared a two and a half mile stretch of land to serve as a common area for the people of this city--and by that, of course, they meant the well-to-do, and mostly people of the same color skin as us.”

Betty mentally pushed herself to follow this new conversation, frantically unearthing her knowledge on the politics of ethnicity. The notion, she knew, was not as loud in Riverdale, where people of color hardly had a voice or were hardly even seen, but here in New York, the Kin were proudly diverse. “Are we then going to this park that excludes other people?”

Jughead chuckled, slightly distracted by the matrons nearby, but taking back what distance he had first put between them. “Never. When I said the Locked ‘cleared’ land, I meant they displaced an entire community of West Indians and Africans--schools, churches, homes. It was a travesty. I cannot stress enough how this pretty little park at the center of the city ruined lives to make the caucasians happy. _ So, _ in New Kin City, that park is the _ one _place where we made an exception about admitting the Locked into our world. While their community was destroyed on the Locked side of the city, we, on the Kin side, were able to preserve some of what was taken away from them. We cannot take all of those displaced. The Kin cannot be exposed to the masses, but we were able to accommodate a good number, enough to keep them thriving. Enough that they have become a vital part of Kin society and have accepted those like us into their lives.”

As they walked to the other side of the vast exhibit, they came upon a new set of stairs, which Jughead gestured for her to take. She climbed the flight, several steps high, and when they emerged at the top, they were at street level again, back in the Kin side of reality, except Betty noticed a distinct change of atmosphere. 

Exotic accents were around them, laughter permeating drumbeats and other string music. The air smelled of spices, and the merchandise sold by stalls took on broader color palettes and exotic vegetables.

It was a feast for the senses and Betty stopped in her tracks to take all of it in, first with her eyes and then when she closed them, she listened and took in the smells. 

Jughead walked slightly past her so that he could lead the way. “This is a largely Haitian community, but I'm told by its residents that everybody is welcome.”

Betty’s mouth watered at the array of cooked food they passed by, as well as the fresh fruits and vegetables piled in carts being sold to pedestrians. Young children ran by with their slates and bags, like they came from school, and both men and women were preoccupied, busily living their lives. 

Betty and Jughead came upon a small storefront, and on its windows, painted in green, yellow, red, and black, were the words Valerie’s Patties.

It was an incredibly small restaurant, and at this hour, there were only two people seated inside, but there seemed to be a constant influx of customers in and out of its narrow doors. There was a counter at the innermost end of it, where a lady around Jughead’s age stood attending, her orange and green Daemon of a gryphon perched on her shoulder, speaking into her ear while she barked orders to someone in the kitchen behind her. 

“Valerie,” Jughead said to get her attention. 

At first, she seemed annoyed at being disturbed, her Daemon taking flight above her, but when she saw who it was, her frown turned into a smile. The gryphon dove and disappeared into the Mark at the base of her neck. “Ah, Jughead Jones! Second time in two weeks!”

She was a beautiful woman, with piercing grey eyes and a wide smile. Her hair was pulled back neatly in a colorful scarf, with little tendrils escaping along the sides of her face in lovely curls. Her clothing was worn in the style of the Kin, with bold tints and cuts, and her ears and wrists were adorned with colorful beads set in dark gold. Her English was accented and almost melodic. 

Valerie came around the counter, tossing off her apron to give Jughead a warm hug, which Betty was slightly flustered with. 

“Are you tired of seeing me, then?” Jughead asked. 

Valerie waved away his words with her hand and tutted. “Of course not. It is good to see you coming back on a more regular basis. And who is your lady friend? Or is she your lady, period?” She winked at Betty as she said this and Betty felt an inexplicable shyness come over her. 

“This is Elizabeth Cooper, from my old town. We practically grew up together,” Jughead replied. “Betty, this is Ms. Valerie Brown, owner and chef of this exceptional establishment.”

Betty and Valerie exchanged respectable curtsies. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Betty said, politely. 

“And I you,” Valerie replied. “Old town… Riverdale, is it? Trevor mentioned Jughead was from there.”

Betty remembered Jughead mentioning Trevor. He was Jughead’s deceased partner. Betty also recalled that the subject of Trevor’s death had evaporated any warmth from Jughead the last time it was brought up unprovoked. He seemed, however, more at ease now. Perhaps because Valerie was related to Trevor somehow? “Yes, Riverdale. This is my first time in the city and Jughead is kind enough to show me around.”

Valerie threw Jughead a sidelong glance. “Kind, is he? You must be special. He don’t just bring anybody here--too many things to explain.”

“You know I only bring my true friends here, Valerie,” Jughead chided lightly. 

Valerie gestured to the tables and they fit in the small one in the corner. Whomever was in the kitchen had emerged to man the front while Valerie was busy. 

“What an extraordinary business you have here, Ms. Brown,” Betty said, and she meant that completely. As small as the establishment was, the decor was exceptionally lovely and atmospheric. The smells from the kitchen were seductive, and the fact that Valerie owned and ran the place was extremely admirable. Betty was breathless with awe. 

Valerie gave a mild scoff. “It could be better, but I have a Grand Plan.” Her accent thickened at this last bit, as if she were sharing her innermost thoughts on the matter. “When I open my shop in Guildman Street, my restaurant will be bigger, with tablecloths and _ Crémasse, _and it will have a variety of Haitian dishes.”

It sounded fantastic and Jughead tilted a grin. “And have half my colleagues drunk out of their minds after lunch. Will I be welcome to walk in here without an appointment, still? Or will you close _ this _shop?”

Valerie looked squarely at Betty. “Don’t listen to this scoundrel, Ms. Cooper. He teases something fierce when he gets in his sarcastic moods. Of course this shop will remain. My patties are legendary and they will stay affordable. My restaurant at Guildman Street will charge for the price of Guildsmen’s and Peace Dealers’ hefty wallets. I _ might _ lighten the spices a wee bit. Those delicate white boys might otherwise choke on the _ joumou.” _

Betty did not know what _ joumou _was, but she had no doubt it was spicy.

_ “Hey,” _Jughead piped with a grin. “I seem to recall how you and Trevor were impressed at how well I can handle the spice.”

She scoffed. “That is because Trevor and I trained your tastebuds well.”

Betty laughed softly. “Well _ I _am not sure I can handle the spice.”

Valerie put a reassuring hand on her arm. “If you can bear to be with this rascal, then I know that you have a saucy enough tongue to withstand it.”

_ “Valerie,” _Jughead said in that stern tone he seemed to have mastered, but all Valerie did was laugh. 

Betty could not help but join in her laughter.

Valerie served them her famous patties—a flaky pastry filled with a spicy savory meat. It was nothing like anything Betty had tasted, and while the spice did wake up her tongue, it was delicious and delightfully easy to eat. She could very well imagine how workers could take these with them for their lunches.

Betty heaped praises on the chef, while Jughead easily finished two in five short minutes. 

Valerie stayed with them a while longer, emphasizing how pleased she was to see Jughead doing well and bringing his friends over. 

She kept mentioning Trevor, which Jughead acknowledged quietly, but said very little about.

When Valerie asked Betty how long she was staying in the city, she hesitated in her reply, because she and Jughead hadn’t discussed it, but Jughead simply replied, “For as long as she likes. For as long as she needs.”

“Well, then,” Valerie said, unperturbed. “If having you here means we get to see more of Jughead—“ she showed the underside of her arm where a mark of a bull-like creature graced it “—then we must convince you to stay. If you need anything, Ms. Cooper—patties, an ear to listen, help with trouble, luck, fertility—“ 

Jughead shot her a pointed look and Valerie laughed before going on.

“—anything at all, come to my shop anytime.”

It was a generous invitation, one that Betty felt she had earned solely because she was Jughead’s friend. 

As they reemerged on the street, Betty itched to ask her many questions. She paused only to consider which question should go first. 

Betty decided on the easiest one. “How did you find this restaurant?”

“My previous partner at the Guild, Trevor,” Jughead replied, tucking his hat back on. “He used to bring these patties to work for his lunch, and when I asked about them, he made me try some. I have enjoyed various Haitian dishes since, but the patties remain my favorite. Valerie is his sister.”

He did not go on and Betty pondered his words. It made sense, then, that Valerie had shown the mark on her arm, referring to herself as a “we”. When relatives pass, the Daemon of the deceased can be hosted by a family member, until they are summoned one last time, after which they will finally pass. Often, such Daemons are never used at all, and they are released with the passing of the Kin who hosted them.

“Valerie knew Trevor was dead before I even realized it myself,” Jughead said in a quiet tone. 

Betty nodded. It was because Trevor’s Daemon passed onto Valerie the moment he died.

Jughead and Valerie seemed comfortable with one another, but Betty could detect no romantic history, if any. Valerie seemed vastly fond of him, but she seemed nurturing. Welcoming, certainly. 

“She expressed surprise at your immediate return,” Betty observed. “Were you never so regular?”

Jughead pursed his lips but nodded, leading her towards an open market. “I used to be, then I wasn’t.” The sights and sounds should have distracted her, but she was intent on learning more about Jughead’s life when he wasn't working. 

“Why?”

“It was complicated.”

“Not anymore?”

“Things got better. Valerie forgave me long before she cremated her brother’s body. It took longer for me to forgive myself.”

It began to dawn on her that his reluctance to speak of his partner was borne from guilt. It was just like him to shoulder the responsibility of everyone’s safety. It was his character, she knew, regardless of whether Charles took him in or not. She tried to find the words to soothe him, but it was impossible to say anything meaningful if she didn’t know the entire story, and before she could say anything, he had pointed to a stall that sold Trinidad barra--more food. 

It occured to Betty that he had brought her to this place at the risk of revealing whatever tragic story was haunting him. In spite of the reality that Jughead did not wish to share that story, he had brought her here because he wished to share with her everything else--the sights, the sounds, the food, and perhaps his friends, too, because at each stall they stopped, they seemed to know him, and of course, Betty was immediately introduced. 

_ This is his way. _

He was bringing her in. He was sharing a part of himself, but as was Jughead’s wont, he was keeping something away that needed peeling back with painstaking patience. 

A deliciously sweet smell permeated her nose and when she turned to look, she saw slices of cooked plantain coated in syrupy sugar being served in cones of newspaper. 

She wanted some for them to share and she grabbed Jughead’s hand to pull him along with her, but a wall of a man carrying a large piece of furniture stepped in her way. She shrieked to avoid it and would have collided badly with him had Jughead not pulled her back and caught her in his arms. 

She laughed with breathless relief, but the feel of his strong arms around her, neither loosening nor pulling away, had her staring into his eyes as the laughter died on her lips. 

The steady rhythm of her heart picked up speed and she waited for what might happen next, but the strangest sound cut through the air, causing him to pull away and dig into his coat pocket.

He brought out what Betty recognized as the aural communicator, and as he slipped it on, he murmured a quick apology and request to give him a moment.

Betty stifled a sigh of frustration, focusing instead on his conversation with the person at the other end.

“Father, must you really?” His frown of displeasure grew deep. “Since when did you take orders from Cheryl Blossom? I _ cannot _ possibly be the only one in this area. _ Who told her that? _ Moose would _ never _and he would set Cheryl’s coach on fire if she is telling such lies about him.” He ran his hand down his face as he gave a great sigh. “Why do you let her--“ He clamped his mouth shut, then he tore off his communicator angrily and stood with his back to her, breathing.

Betty nipped at her lip, hesitating to put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He turned at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten she was there. He transformed his displeased expression into a soft smile, which wrung her heart ever so slightly. “I am, but unfortunately, a call has come in and I need to work.”

This was not at all bad news to her. “Oh. Well, may I go with you?”

He scowled. “Absolutely not.” He began walking back in the direction of the main street. 

She was not deterred. “Why not?”

He seemed flabbergasted by her question. _ “Why not? _Because this is official Guild business and you aren’t licensed to practice—“

“I was never licensed. And yet I did it in Riverdale. You did it there without a license, either. Does this license give you special powers that are unavailable to me--”

_ “Betty,” _he interrupted in a stern tone. “You know what I mean.”

“You know what I’m capable of. I can help. Is it because my Daemon hasn’t quickened?”

_ “No.” _He waved his hand for emphasis. “No. I have no doubt of your capabilities, but reports have to get filled and how am I to explain your presence? In the eyes of the Guild you are a civilian--”

“Then don’t. Mention me, I mean. Come now. You may be the perfect gentleman these days, but I know those street smarts have not completely left you.”

He shook his head and he wasn’t smiling, but as they wove through the crowd, his lack of counter argument told her he was considering it. 

As they emerged from the building alleyways onto Fifth Avenue, he said, “Betty, this isn’t a lark at a boring party.”

That he juxtaposed this with those wonderful times they set off together to find mischief told her that not all was lost. “You said it yourself once. Everyone needs a partner. I will be your partner for now. And no, this isn’t a lark at a boring party. We are leaving an extremely enjoyable afternoon for a higher purpose.”

They stood by the sidewalk, face to face, and the little crimp between Jughead’s brows made Betty want to giggle.

The black carriage reminiscent of the one they had at Riverdale pulled up beside them, Moose at the helm. This carriage looked even sleeker—newer than the Riverdale version.

“I didn’t tell Cheryl,” Moose cried without prompting, holding out a folder for Jughead to take.

Jughead frowned up at him and took the folder from his hand. “I am sure you did not, but she had reason to believe that interrupting my day off would incense me thoroughly, which she has. What did you say?”

“Absolutely nothing!” 

Jughead sighed and rolled his eyes. “A sure way to clue her in. You could have said _ something _just to throw her off.”

“I am a terrible liar, Jones.”

“When unmotivated, I’m sure.”

“Next time, prepare me for when you wish to have a day with your lady.”

Jughead fixed him with a deadly glare.

Moose looked at Betty. “Another carriage will be by soon to pick you up, Miss Cooper.”

She pulled her shoulders back and simply said, “I don’t need it. I am going with you.”

Jughead shot her a warning look. “Now, Betty—“

She didn’t wait. She pulled open the carriage door herself and stepped inside, sitting herself down on the cushioned interior. It was incredibly comfortable and also much more interesting that the one they kept at Riverdale. 

The wall before her unfolded, revealing a row of buttons, some levers, and what looked like a blank picture frame against the wall. She made a motion to press one of the buttons labeled PROCESS. 

_ “Please _refrain from touching anything,” Jughead grumbled as he slumped heavily beside her. “How do you even know that isn’t to explode this carriage?”

She frowned. “As if there were such a thing.”

Jughead sighed and pulled down another lever, which opened a panel with a red button inside. On it was a warning: _ ALERT: Exerting pressure on this button affords you precisely 10 seconds to evacuate the vehicle before it detonates. _

“How extraordinary.”

He turned to face her. “This is not safe.”

“Truly. You must close that panel immediately, lest we press it by accident.”

“I do not mean the detonator. I cannot let you go with me. If anything happens to you--” He stopped and took a deep breath, shaking his head.

“Nothing will happen to me, Jughead. I can help you and you know it. Remember when you refused to let me go alone before? I would like to be able to provide support to you as well. Besides, I am not leaving this coach. You will have to throw me out of it, which you would _ never _do.”

A glint of mischief sparked in his eyes. “I can contain you in it. Tie you up and keep you here.”

She cast him a look of challenge. “You wouldn’t dare. And I’ll have you know that I pride myself at being quite the escape artist.”

Though he didn’t laugh, his sardonic grin did mark her triumph. “Somehow I do not doubt you. If you are to come with me, you must do as I say. Do you understand?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I do! Now tell me--where are they sending you?”

He opened the folder that Moose gave him earlier. “To an abandoned pencil factory. Last week, a man was killed at the Edward Baker Pencil Company and his spirit refuses to leave this plane, and in doing so revealed that there are other ghosts hiding with him,”

“How many?”

“Seven. It is your lucky day, Betty.”

She eyed him pointedly as she replied. “Oh, I already knew _ that _when I woke up this morning.”

  
  


tbc


	7. Kin Craft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is and I hope you like it. The invocations used here are in the Enochian language. I did not invent the language, but I do use it liberally, with no thought towards grammar and syntax.

Betty had never confronted seven ghosts at once. Such haunts required massive venues with intricate architecture, like grand theaters, sprawling mansions, and ancient abbeys. Riverdale did not have a theater so grand nor a mansion so sprawling. The only place that may compare was the isolated abbess, some 7 leagues away from Elm, called the Sisters of Quiet Mercy and they never complained of any restless spirits. 

There were rumors, of course, and Betty had offered her help by post, but her offer went unanswered, and Betty wouldn’t dare to break into the establishment, as the nuns, to her, were more frightening than the spirits. 

To confront seven ghosts,  _ with  _ Jughead, would be an adventure she felt she had been preparing for all her life. There was bound to be danger, and it would likely be challenging, but the excitement of testing her mettle, with Jughead by her side, swept away any anxiety she may have. 

She watched him unfurl the folder.

“These are the profiles of our spirits,” Jughead explained, handing her a sheet. “The Reapers keep track of those whose spirits leave their bodies and go towards the light. When a spirit refuses to cross over, the Reapers are often the first to know. The system, as you can imagine, is overwrought. We only have so many Reapers, so many datamancers, and while there are enough feromonic fields to capture  _ all  _ the data, it is impossible to follow every lead we are given. This was always a limitation our Kin scientists were aware of--the data is available, but we don’t have enough  _ people  _ and Daemons to process and execute it, so while we are aware that there are spirits who have refused to cross over, we can’t track all instances and we can’t catch them all. We have, however, devised a system where the troublemakers are triaged, and from those points of interest, we can trace other relevant data.”

Her sheet had an old photograph of a stately middle-aged man. His name was Stanley Maglin--founder and previous owner of the pencil factory. The sheet provided a quick summary of Mr. Maglin’s personality profile, his history, and other useful information such as his date of death, how old he was, and the cause of his death. He was Spirit #1. 

The sheet Jughead was looking at said Spirit #7 at the top, and the name on the sheet said, Laurie Maglin. 

“Laurie Maglin is Stanley Maglin’s brother,” Jughead said. “The factory has been closed for a few months now, but Laurie Maglin’s death last week was what got the attention of the Reapers, and now we know he is one among seven ghosts haunting the factory.”

Betty examined the other sheets and she noticed that the spirits were numbered according to the date of death, with Stanley Maglin being the first death a year and a half ago. “So the Reapers ignored the first six deaths, all of which occurred  _ within  _ a year and few months in change? What mischief do spirits have to manage to get the Reapers’ attention?”

Jughead snorted softly and shrugged. “Factories do tend to have many deaths and accidents, most of which can be attributed to human negligence, error, or other non-paranormal causes, so it could have just been that this factory went unnoticed so long based on that statistical norm, but I cannot presume to know the models they follow in that department.”

Betty examined the other files. “And why did Mr. Laurie Maglin’s death call the attention of the Reapers  _ now?” _

Jughead gestured to Laurie Maglin’s information. “His death came  _ after  _ the factory ceased operations. It has not been in business for months. It isn’t an exact science, their triage. The Reaper’s methods are as mind-boggling as their labyrinthian department structure. So long as they give me the reports and information that I need, the intricacy of their ways and bureaucracy are of no concern to me.”

Betty could only imagine the breadth of cases that could arise out of a densely populated city like New York. It was little wonder that the Kin have devised technological means to tackle the volume of work. “Is the Guild in the habit of assigning multiple haunts to someone lacking a partner?”

Jughead smirked without looking up from the sheaf of folios. “The guideline is that a Peace Dealer must never undertake a case alone. Technically, I’ve got Moose. Study these profiles well, Betty. You never know when the information may prove useful.”

She nodded, noting how he deflected talk of partners and protocol. 

He took the folio for Spirit #1 and fed it into a slot. The sheet disappeared into the slot and the once blank frame on the wall lit with more information. “Spirits always stay for a reason. You know this.” He pointed to a block of text with the heading  _ Theorems.  _ “But the Reaper department offers many theories that may have led to the spirit staying, from wards to unfinished business. In the case of a group haunt, the theories may be connected.”

Betty found this preparation fascinating. Working on her own in Riverdale, she had to make her own investigation and theories into any given case. She did not have a Reaper department who may provide her with information. That all this was immediately available felt like an embarrassment of riches. She absorbed the profiles of each one, speculating on how she may put the pieces of the puzzle together. 

She hardly noticed how fast they were going until she glanced up through the window and saw a greenish glow streaking across the scenery. It occurred to her that they were zipping through the streets of New York cloaked in Moose’s Daemon. 

It was extraordinary to her how Daemons were so well utilized by the Kin. 

“I know,” Jughead’s voice cut through her thoughts. “I never imagined how Daemons enhanced our way of life. There weren’t enough Kin in Riverdale to show the breadth of our Daemon’s capabilities. Even my father did not use his Daemon to its full potential until we moved here. May have been because he was drunk most of the time, but still…”

She pressed her hand briefly to his arm. “And Charles couldn’t show us how, either, on account of his Daemon having been taken away.”

“Did your mother not use hers?” Jughead asked. “I never saw her Daemon.”

Betty could only recall a handful of times her mother used her Daemon, and the Daemon, a mantis-like creature with elongated wings, always presented small enough to be perched on her shoulder. “She rarely summoned hers, and whenever I saw it, it was fleeting. Mother always called her Daemon back whenever anyone else might see. In the past I always thought it was because she did not want to hurt Charles’s feelings, reminding him that he could no longer use his own Daemon, but when Charles passed, she  _ still  _ hardly summoned it. I’ve wondered whether she considered her Daemon a vulnerability, and mother is  _ never  _ vulnerable.”

Jughead seemed to give it a moment’s thought. “That is a curious perspective, but it isn’t unreasonable. Daemons present when you most need them. You summon them at your most vulnerable. Mrs. Cooper could very well believe that the less you see of her Daemon, the stronger she may seem on her own to other people.”

“Mother always prefered to inspire fear over love.” Betty did not quite like showing vulnerability herself. “Sometimes I wonder if my mother bred that into me whether she intended to or not.”

Jughead tilted his gaze at her, the corner of his lip lifting.

She frowned at this. “I have amused you.”

He shook his head. “Not in the way you think. You are intimidating when you want to be, Betty, but I think your ability to inspire other things in people gives you more strength than striking fear ever could.”

The touch of his hand on her shoulder caused her heartbeat to jump. “Good things, I hope?”

He seemed surprised by her question. “Of course, good things.”

“And to whom do you refer to by ‘people’?”

“Pe--well, I can only speak for myself. I…” His face grew inexplicably red. 

She bit her lip, her emotions warring with her senses. They were on a case, and truly, it was not his fault that she fancied him so much that every little breadcrumb caused her distraction, but she wanted to know what he  _ really  _ thought of her, and she was about to ask him to explain when the carriage took a hard turn and caused Betty to lurch. 

She screeched in surprise, and she found herself draped inappropriately over Jughead, her hands pressed to his chest. She could feel the lift and fall of his breathing, the hard planes of him against her. Her face felt hot and she gasped, unprepared at the sheer certainty that her face was crimson to her ears and it wasn’t all because of embarrassment. 

Jughead gripped her by the waist to hold her steady as he yelled and knocked on the carriage roof with the butt of her umbrella. “For God’s sake, Moose!”

“Apologies, Jones! Ms. Cooper! We narrowly missed a turn there. Won’t happen again! Carry on with your conversation--I mean, whatever you were doing. We will be at the pencil factory shortly.”

Betty wasn’t sure she wanted to remove herself from Jughead, but he appeared to be the gentleman in this situation as he helped her back to her seat. 

“Have you ever faced seven spirits at once, Betty?” he asked, somewhat breathlessly. 

She scrambled to collect her own thoughts, fully aware of the quick change of subject. “I have not, but they never come at you all at once, do they? Especially not in a large venue such as this.”

“Unless they are poltergeists, no. The reports suggest they manifest separately.”

Jughead continued to discuss the spirits and Betty could not help but follow this conversation, perhaps clinging to it as a means to refocus her mind on the case. 

When the carriage slowed, Betty glanced out of the windows again. The Daemon glow was gone and she could see the grills of a gate passing by. 

As soon as the carriage stopped, Jughead was pushing the carriage door open and holding his hand out for Betty. As she emerged from the coach, she saw that they were in a courtyard littered with broken equipment and misplaced metal parts that had begun to rust where exposed to the elements. The ground was peppered with wood chips and shavings. Piled haphazardly to the side of the building were the rubble remains of cut graphite. Its natural mineral sheen twinkled under the sun.

Betty took a step and felt her boot rolling over something malleable. She crouched to the ground and picked up the material. Through the dust and grime she could spy something pink, and as she pinched the material between her fingers, she felt it give. 

“Eraser head,” she said in an amused tone. She looked around her and realized that thousands of them were scattered on the ground, too. Her gaze travelled to the factory and through its windows. She saw movement from several of them, shadow figures and spectral forms moving away from her knowing gaze. 

She straightened and shook the dirt from her fingers. “I see them on the second and third floors.”

Jughead nodded as he looped the strap of a leather satchel over his head and across his body. 

Ghosts often looked out the windows of their hauntings, realizing, often too late, that someone could see them. Ghosts were known to roam the entirety of their haunts, but they did get attached to specific places.

Sometimes, where a ghost frequented offered insight into their phantasm. For instance, spirits who inhabited the basement or the attic either like to be left alone or were up to something more nefarious. Middle level ghosts, though the most likely to be seen, corrupted more slowly.

Jughead looked at Moose who had already dismounted from his perch. “Can you mark the perimeter for us?”

“Of course,” Moose replied. His Daemon emerged and enlarged, it’s lizard-like body curling into a circle wide enough for Moose to step into. The debris that once covered the ground seemed to have faded into their own spectral forms, allowing Moose to see the ground unhampered as he did his work. He brought out a booklet from his satchel, and when he opened it, three tobacco shaped chunks of chalky material were fitted in pockets. There were all a different shade of white, each having flecks of color on them. Moose selected one and used it to draw what looked like a round sigil with him in the middle. 

Betty has had to draw sigils on the ground, herself, but she only ever had one piece of chalk. She’d never had to select from a set. “Is there any difference between the pieces?” 

Jughead nodded “The Guild makes them special for our use. It is made up of all manner of materials. One or the other would be better for certain sigils. They all have a high content of salt, but there are certain minerals that work better for certain classes of sigil casting.”

She sighed quietly, wishing her brother had told her of such things. Charles had been a thorough teacher, but he had kept details of Guild Peacedealing from her for reasons he did not care to explain. 

She watched Moose draw the circle and the symbols, and when he was done, he tucked the wallet of chalk back into his coat and brought out a small athame. He dragged the blade across his palm and squeezed his blood upon one of the symbols. “ _ En canilu, abaramig a balie.”  _

_ By my blood, sanctify. _

It was strange to hear the language of angels spoken by someone else. 

The glow of Moose’s sigil began at the point of contact then spread to the rest of it, outlining every ring and symbol with a green light even more brilliant than his Daemon’s. And then the light was gone, his Daemon disappearing into the back of his neck.

The debris was back, completely covering the sigil. It hadn’t been moved at all. Moose cleared some of it with his shoe and Betty could see parts of the sigil emerge from beneath the debris.

At that, Moose placed his palm upon the pocket of clearing and he whispered another invocation under his breath. Nary a heartbeat passed and the entire sigil was aglow in white, penetrating the debris that covered most of it and pushing all the debris upon it aside. The light spread outward, forming a circle of light around the property and encasing the factory in a large circle. 

The light dissipated and Moose stood, stepping out of the now visible sigil. “If any spirit passes the perimeter rings, I will know where, and they shall be marked, warded, and caught.”

Spirits never strayed far from their chosen haunts. There were forces that tied them to a specific place and they could not gainsay it. Only the Kin could transport them, which was the case for the spirits that Betty had brought home on occasion. 

“Thank you,” said Jughead, beginning to head to the doors. 

Betty followed close behind and when they reached the entrance, they both took a closer look at the lock. 

The double doors were large and padlocked with chains, with rust starting to set in. 

Jughead gave the chains a soft rattle. “Honestly, you’d think the Reapers would have included this in their report. Moose, do we happen to have bolt cutters in the carriage?”

“Let me check under the kitchen sink. What do you take me for, Jones?”

Betty scoffed. “Really, you two.” She pulled two pins from her hat and immediately began picking the lock. 

“Do you always keep lockpicks in your hat?” Moose asked.

“The bolt cutters were too big for my head.”

“Oh, she is a real country rose, Jughead.”

_ “Moose.”  _

Betty bit her lip to refrain from grinning. Instead, she focused on the lock until the telltale click signaled her success.  Jughead quickly removed the padlock and tossed the chains to the ground. With hardly a moment’s breath, Betty kicked the doors once, then twice. The door shrieked open at her third kick and dust puffed out of the opening.

Jughead was frowning. 

“What?” she cried.

“There could have been a deadbolt. There could have been any number of things and you could have broken your foot or injured yourself in some way.”

She waved his concerns away. “There wasn’t and I didn’t believe there would be. This factory is abandoned. Nobody alive is in there and so nobody who locked it from the outside could set the deadbolt inside, unless you think the spirits inside would take the trouble and energy to do it.”

“It isn’t unheard of,” he muttered, walking through the door.

Betty exchanged amused looks with Moose before she followed Jughead into the factory.

The factory floor wasn’t completely dark. The high windows along the first floor ceiling let in some light, but the dirt and grime that had gathered on its surface dimmed what lighting could come through. 

The machines were dusty and cold, dead things long gone of vitality. While machines did not have souls, they did have imprints of themselves long after they’ve been turned off. The energy they had been running on all day continued to glow off them, sometimes for weeks, but non-use eventually depleted that after glow. None of the mechanisms on this floor had any glow left, and upon closer inspection, Betty saw that rust was beginning to penetrate through the gears, as well. It would take a lot of effort and elbow grease to bring these machines back to life.

Jughead had gone off to the side towards another door and he prompted Betty to follow him. He pushed the door open and as she looked over his shoulder, she saw that they were on a landing to stairs heading down. It was black as night beyond it. 

Jughead held out his arm and something in his cuff clicked. A palm-sized disk emerged, mounted and attached to his wrist. It was crystalline and shiny. The mark on the back of Jughead’s neck glowed, and its blue light was mirrored onto the disk, casting a light through the darkness. 

Jughead held the light out and its beams lit the staircase.

“Extraordinary,” she whispered. “It’s a portable lamp powered by your Daemon.”

“Crystalizer.” Jughead began to head down the stairs. “A new development. Portability is the newest trend, according to Jellybean. This is her design.” 

She followed after him. “Genius! Did she invent this?”

“Oh, no. This invention preceded her, but she did improve upon it. She made it lighter and smaller than it used to be.”

“It is brilliant.”

“It is, but it is dependent on having a Daemon. Jellybean is hoping to invent one that relies on other sources of energy.”

Betty marveled at the ingenuity Jughead’s sister possessed. 

As Jughead moved, the darkness consumed what the light cannot reach. Betty felt the thickness of the dark like water, and even with the crystalizer lighting the way, she could barely see ahead. She put her hand upon Jughead’s shoulder to guide her.

“Why, you aren’t afraid of the dark, are you?” Jughead teased.

She frowned. “Of course not. I could hardly see a thing. This darkness… it feels different, like it’s sucking light away.”

Jughead nodded. As they reached the bottom, he swung the crystalizer around and Betty could see the particles of dust floating in the light. As they took a moment to survey their surroundings, the silence grew denser. The sound of their shuffling feet seemed to echo through the floor. 

Betty could hear the distant sound of dripping water. It smelled of water logged decay. 

As her eyes finally began to adjust to the oppressive black, she began to make out the shape of hulking machinery spanning the entire floor, almost from wall to wall. There was a walkway in the middle, wide and spacious, but the machines were large and imposing. 

“The engine room,” Jughead said. “They powered the factory with coal.”

Jughead swung the light towards one of the turbines and headed towards it, gestured for her to look closer. 

She saw a layer of something that she knew was not visible to the Lost. It was a steady layer of mist, floating above the surface. She poked her finger into it and the mist parted where she touched, but nothing else was disturbed. The misty layer remained everywhere else. Eventually, the hole she created faded and was devoured by the mist again, but the rest of it barely moved. 

“Paraplasm haze,” she muttered.

He nodded. “Plenty of it, it seems.”

Paraplasm haze was ghost residue and Betty had never seen it like this. Most of the time, paraplasm looked like free-floating mist. It was difficult to distinguish from regular mist outdoors. Easier to spot indoors, obviously. 

This haze didn’t even move. It was a steady coat, like spectral leftovers.

“These were energy cores when the factory was in operation,” Jughead said, gesturing to all the turbines around them. “When they were turned off, the energy they emitted remained infused in them, probably for months.”

Betty nodded. 

Jughead went on. “You can imagine how the ghosts feasted on this energy. In a regular home, a family’s life force is often enough to sustain and aggravate a haunting. Can you imagine the energy these turbines can make for ghosts to feed on? They must have been siphoning off these things like mad.”

Betty brought out her compact and fished out a small pill from within, crushing it between her fingers until the powdery residue coated her fingers.

Gingerly, she pushed her hand through the mist to touch the cool metal, but as expected, her fingers came in contact with a thin, viscous goo. The more spirits took energy from inanimate objects, the more likely paraplasm would coagulate into slime. She brought up her fingers to look at her soiled fingers and examine it in the light. 

Jughead’s lip curled. “I have never seen anyone touch that voluntarily, you know.”

She smiled, amused by his disgust. She rubbed the slime between her fingers and the colorless substance turned the powder coating a light blue.

“Did you do something with it?” Jughead asked. “How did it change color like that?”

“One of Charles’s compounds. Found the formula in the annals of his old notes and I have the local apothecary create them for me.” She flicked off the excess slime. “The warmth tells me the spirit was here recently, and the color indicates that only one spirit is siphoning off this particular turbine. If multiple spirits were taking from the same place, the reaction would have caused a green tinge. What this tells me is that these spirits--they aren’t all friendly with one another. There is at least one that has deigned to break off from the group.” 

Jughead arched an eyebrow. “If accurate, that information is extraordinarily useful. It means there might be a dominant.”

She nodded. “I know. You see? I am useful to you already.”

Even in the darkness, she could see him casting her a sidelong glance and she stifled a grin.

The quiet that followed fell upon them like a sheet. It was disturbing, how the sound disappeared, drowned by the dark. 

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She could feel the presence that resided here and it wasn’t pleasant.

“You feel it too, don’t you? The entity?” Jughead said, looking about him casually. “And we know the worst spirits like basements best.” 

Betty nodded. A lone spirit haunting from the basement when there was a gathering of ghosts was never a good sign. Not only were they malignant, but sometimes, it meant they were dominant, menacing enough to be feared by the other spirits in the house. Dominant spirits ruled and caused other spirits to misbehave. They could be dealing with a Shadow Wraith.

“How shall we do this?” she asked. This was Jughead’s case. She would follow his lead. 

“We isolate it,” Jughead said, gesturing for her to go back up the staircase. “First we round up all the spirits in one place and contain them. The potential shadow wraith won’t come when summoned. We will have to go to it and capture it, but if there aren’t other ghosts to distract us, it should be easier to deal with.”

“So you  _ do  _ think it’s a Shadow Wraith.”

Shadow Wraiths were some of the worst spirits, malignant to the living with an ability to possess them. They were malicious enough to ‘fulfill’ curses on properties and the people residing in them.

He nodded. “I think so, yes.”

Betty agreed. “Do you think the entity caused this factory to shut down?”

“I do. Don’t you?” 

Betty did strongly believe the hauntings caused the factory’s demise. It didn’t shut down with the first owner’s violent death. The file said his arm had gotten caught in one of the machines. He did not survive the severing of it. It hadn’t been an easy death and they had to take the machine apart to retrieve his arm.

Betty swallowed. She was not afraid of spirits, but she didn’t much like seeing the death visage of the more violently killed. 

Things went wrong in the factory after that. There were other fatal accidents, inexplicable machinery breakdowns, products were destroyed, and there was even a fire that shut down production for two weeks. Employees began complaining about strange goings on so frequently that employees quit their jobs and refused to go alone to parts of the building. The factory eventually closed from high production costs and low output. 

“Do you think Stanley Maglin is our dominant?” she asked. 

“Could be. His profile fits.”

Stanley Maglin’s file described a difficult, demanding man, whose drive to succeed was propelled by ruthlessness. He was not well liked, but while he was alive, the factory thrived. Things only started falling apart when he perished.

Jughead began to head for another set of doors with another set of stairs within them. This staircase was better lit. It went all the way up to the third floor and each halfway landing had large glass windows. They got off the second floor, and the dim hallways were illuminated by the light coming through some of the open office doors. 

Afternoon light streamed through the windows of each room. Paper and other office debris were strewn everywhere. Filing cabinets stood rusting at odd angles. Bound books sat rotting in their shelves. Some of the furniture was draped over with sheets, giving the impression of comic strip ghosts that the papers occasionally put in the funnies. 

Betty heard a brief but distinct tapping sound. It stopped before she could decipher what it was. “Did you hear that?”

Jughead nodded. 

The tapping commenced again. 

Following the sound, they made their way deeper in the halls, and towards the end of the long stretch, there were big double doors with glass windows. Betty peered into the room and saw several rows of typewriting stations. She pushed the door open and its hinges screeched terrifically. 

“Ought to wake up the dead,” Jughead muttered. 

She ignored him and went to one of the typewriters. She pushed a key and it made that same tapping sound they heard earlier.

They looked around the room, and at first glance it seemed empty, but sure enough, a closer look at one of the corners and Betty could make out the form of a female dressed in a somber looking suit, her dark rimmed eyes staring at them with barely veiled scorn. 

Betty recognized her photograph from one of the folios. Dolores. She was a typist, rumored to have had an affair with one of the factory’s married employees and found strangled to death in the supplies closet. Interviews with close friends revealed she was pregnant at the time of her death, but no one knew who her lover was. Her case remained unsolved, but the theory was that upon telling the married man that she was with child, he hastened to cover up the scandal by killing her. Betty felt badly for her. 

“Hello, Dolores,” Betty said. 

Dolores did not appreciate being addressed. She melted quickly through the walls.

Jughead shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You need not engage them all the time. I’d imagine doing so would be exhausting.”

“How else would I catch them if I did not engage them?” Betty asked.

Before he could reply, a child’s laughter sprinkled the air. Betty turned and followed the sound back into the hallway. 

A ball rolled out of the darkness just as Betty saw the shape of a little girl moving in the shadows. 

This must be Christina, the lone child spirit on the premises. She was six when she died playing in the storage rooms. She had climbed a shelf and it tilted over her little body. It wrung Betty’s heart just thinking about it. 

Betty picked up the ball and threw it back into the dark. Moments later, the ball rolled back out.

“She’s strong,” Jughead said. 

Betty nodded, moving towards the dark. “Why don’t you come into the light, darling?” She crouched down to sit on her heels. “It won’t hurt you.”

At first it was silent and Jughead made a motion to move on, but Betty gestured for him to wait a moment. 

“Papa said I mustn’t talk to strangers,” came a whisper. 

“Wise advice. Where’s your papa now?” Betty asked. 

“He’s not come back for me. Not for a while.”

Betty felt an impossible amount of sympathy. “You’ll see him again one day, I promise you.”

Christina shifted, just enough for Betty to make out a floating form in a bloody pinafore. “Really?”

Betty nodded, pushing the ball back at her, but more gently this time.

Christina put her foot out to stop the ball. She grinned up at Betty, proud at what she had done. 

“Can I ask you something?” Betty said. “Where are the rest of the people in this place?”

“Third level now. They are avoiding you. Only Dolores stays on this floor all the time.”

Betty nodded. “We just saw her. Is there a spirit in the basement?”

Christina nodded. “Awful. Awful man. He keeps us all from leaving.”

Betty looked up at Jughead. He was frowning and angling his head in a beckoning gesture.

She stood to go to him.

He leaned over and spoke close to her ear. “We can find the other spirits without asking her. Spirits get confused and their information may be wrong.” 

She frowned and she replied in a whisper. “I know that, but if they are to trust me--”

“They do not have to.”

She stared up at his steely gaze in surprise. “It is the only way I know. Charles taught us both to do it this way.”

Jughead looked away. “I know and I do it that way when I can, but we both know that way is prone to a great degree of error. Ghosts cannot be trusted, not only because their minds are addled, but if they are under the thumb of a dark entity, like the one in the basement? Shadow Wraiths are as cunning as they are terrible. If he wanted to point us in the wrong direction, he would use this very child to give us the wrong information.”

She was about to insist that he had it wrong when she realized that the little girl was no longer there. “She’s gone. Are you happy now, Jughead?”

“I hardly care one way or another. These spirits need to come to us and we need to ward them. This hallway is good. Help me clear a space, please.”

Betty began kicking the debris aside and pushing back a rusty iron chair. 

Jughead took out his own chalk and his Daemon, Elemiah, emerged, creating a circle for Jughead, which he started to trace. Jughead drew symbols along the edges within the circle, drawing an inner ring when the symbols were completed. Along the innermost circle, he wrote even more symbols. He drew four more symbols, evenly spaced, outside the biggest circle. When he was done, he stepped out, cut his palm with an athame, and dripped his blood on the chalk.

“ _ En canilu, abaramig a balie.”  _ They were the same words Moose had uttered. The entire image lit up in red, as Moose’s did, but Jughead wasn’t finished. He placed his hand flat on the same symbol and said,  _ “Zodomibe.”  _

The sigil faded from sight and Elemiah disappeared back into his mark. 

Betty blinked, unfamiliar with the invocation. “What did you do?”

“I veiled it,” he said, proceeding to draw another sigil, a smaller one and he activated that one, too with the same cut on his palm.

She pressed her lips to a thin line. “Must be nice--to not worry about cuts like that.”

He seemed confused, at first, but it dawned on him what she said. “You’ll have your time.” 

He held his hand out, and Betty watched as his eyes glowed blue before the faint outline of Elemiah’s spectral claws appeared around Jughead’s hand like a glove. The gash knitted closed. Elemiah faded and Jughead’s hand was good as new. 

Jughead flexed his fingers and seemed satisfied with his healing. Daemons could heal small cuts and bruises. They can slow the bleeding of certain deeper wounds, but it did not render them immortal. Mortal wounds can and will kill them

He gestured for Betty to crouch beside him. 

“We need to summon the spirits, call them out one by one, by name if we know it, by intent if not,” Jughead said. “Come here.”

She crouched beside him and he took her hand, placing the athame in her palm. She frowned. “You’ve activated it with your blood. My blood won’t be able to invoke it.” 

“If we are Daemon Bound, it will for sure,” Jughead said in a somewhat quiet tone, then he shrugged. “It may work for those who  _ are not  _ Daemon Bound, either--if you have a strong enough bond with your partner, if you trust them completely, partners can invoke each other’s sigils. Now, you must say these words of invocation:  _ Ol umd ila-- _ then the spirit’s name.”

She had never heard those Enochian invocations before. “What does that mean?”

“At its simplest, it means: I summon thee.”

Her jaw dropped. “And that compels spirits? To what, appear in the sigil? Just like that?”

He nodded. “If they haven’t the strength to resist, it will.”

She looked at the sigil, then up at him again. “It sounds cruel.”

“They are spirits.”

“They were human before they were spirits.”

“There’s too many of them, Betty. If we all did it Charles’s way, it will take an eternity to get anything else done.”

She frowned and glared at him. She was beginning to understand why Charles scorned the ways of the Guild. “Is this what they taught you? I thought we were in the business of dealing peace. How can you give peace when you  _ force  _ spirits to cross over? We can force  _ wraiths,  _ the more malicious ones, but not the ones who merely wish to finish their business on this plane.” 

“The Guild is in the business of ridding our realm of rogue spirits. They do not belong here. You  _ know  _ this--”

“It takes compassion to be a Peace Dealer!”

“And that fact remains!” Jughead insisted. “But we have learned to do it more efficiently. They all go to the same place, Betty. Holding their hand to cross them over and pushing them through the light results in the same outcome. They are delivered to where they are supposed to be.”

Betty’s chin jutted, her teeth were clenched so hard. “That sounds barbaric. And how does that work, exactly? We both know opening a gate requires an incredible amount of energy--energy we cannot expend on a regular basis! It will push every Peace Dealer to an early grave! The spirit has to summon the portal themselves and that will only happen if the spirit willingly decides to leave.”

Jughead shook his head. “There is a Room of Realms, deep beneath the Guild, and it is how we send spirits to the Otherrealms. It can be used only once a year and it opens a gateway to the Otherrealm for spirits to depart.”

Betty had never heard of a Room of Realms. It sounded preposterous. “It sounds like fantasy.”

“It does,” Jughead admitted. “I didn’t believe it at first, but I’ve seen it work with my own eyes. We bear witness to its workings at the academy. It requires Alchemy, sigil craft, and celestial alignment that the operators of the Room calculate each year. It is real, and it spares us from having to open a portal ourselves, or from catering to the whims of stubborn ghosts.”

“And in the meantime, spirits await their deliverance in vessels.”

“They are not aware of the passage of time.”

“You don’t know that!”

He said nothing, only waiting for her objections to pass. 

She looked at the athame in her hand. “Is this why Charles didn’t like the ways of the Guild?”

Jughead took a moment to reply. “I can only assume. The device has been in existence since before Charles served, though it was invented during his lifetime. Charles saw its dawn. Perhaps he did not agree with the direction the Guild was going.”

It did not sit well with Betty, either, but she never had to live in a city like New York, where spirits, she imagined, were numbered by the thousands. It seemed reasonable for a society of many to want to be efficient. She would have to wrestle with this reality for a while, but for now, she had promised Jughead she would follow his lead. 

“Show me how this works and I will do it, but you must let me speak to them, if only in brief.”

He sighed. “Betty.”

“Juggie, please. I’ll be quick, I swear it. Perhaps I will eventually learn to be dispassionate, but not today.” 

A soft scoff escaped his throat. “I do not think you will ever be dispassionate, and I don’t believe I would want you to be.”

It meant the world to hear him say that. She smiled, grateful. 

“We will talk about this more, later,” he promised. 

She nodded. “Tell me the invocation again.”

He did, and when she pierced her palm, she began the invocation to compel the spirits. 

For a moment, nothing happened, and the disappointment that they might not be Daemon Bound hit her like a sledgehammer to the gut, but just when her heart began to break, the sigil glowed underneath her palm and instantly, Dolores Cain was before her, standing in the invisible circle that Jughead had drawn. 

Betty curled her bloodied palm against her chest, astounded by the immediate effect of the invocation. For a heartbeat, all the spirit could do was stare at them both in disbelief, and then the screaming began. 

Dolores howled in fury, outraged that she had been forced to show herself when she wanted nothing to do with the living. She did not like being trapped, for that is what Jughead’s circle appeared to do, and she tried to leave, but an unseen barrier stopped her.

Betty understood her rage, and for a moment she was held breathless with guilt. 

She struggled to gather her bearings. “Please, Ms. Cain!” Betty cried above the spirit’s wailing. 

“She cannot be reasoned with,” Jughead said before Betty could insist further. He pulled out a small ceramic vial, capped by a cork, from his satchel. The cork was attached to a string, which was tied around the bottle’s neck. He uncapped the vial and propped it in the center of the smaller sigil. Taking his athame, he stabbed his thumb with its tip and pressed his thumb to the sigil. 

Betty knew what he was going to do. “Wait! I have not talked to her yet!”

Jughead frowned. “Try if you can.”

Betty called Dolores by name again, but the spirit was so furious that she spat profanities at Betty. Betty was not deterred. She raised her voice and spoke above the din. “Ms. Cain, is there anything you need me to do before you leave this plane?”

For a moment, it looked as if Dolores would not be moved to speak sense, but her screaming stopped, and though her eyes remained bright with anger, she did speak. “It was Mr. Matthew Jenkin who silenced me.”

_ Silenced.  _ Betty wondered if she could put away this man who had killed her, but sometimes it was enough for spirits just to tell someone else. “Thank you, Ms. Cain. I will remember.”

Dolores did not start screaming again. 

Jughead spoke another invocation and Dolores’s spirit began to get sucked through the mouth of the vial. When all of Dolores was contained, he used the same thumb to cap the bottle, his blood smeared over the cork. He put the vial back into the satchel and produced a fresh one. 

Betty nodded and proceeded, calling the spirits one at a time and trying her best to assuage their fears. She offered them help in exchange for a peaceful delivery to the Otherrealm. Some of them did not remember who they were, but then the ones who did began to show up unsummoned, demanding her attention. 

Betty tried to keep things calm and Jughead patiently let her talk to spirit after spirit, remembering their final requests, taking note of what had to be done. Promising them what would give them peace. Their requests were little things. Hidden packages, last words, important secrets, often meant for the people they left behind. 

One of the spirits simply forgot who they were and they needed to remember, and the only clue they had was a song. Fortunately for Adahi of the Haudenosaunee, his folio had a picture, and Betty told him about himself, how he had a wife and two children, what his job was at the factory, how old he was and the date of his death. He opened his own portal as they spoke, never needing the vessel that contained him. 

They had four occupied vials and three empty ones. 

The only spirits left were Christina and Stanley Maglin. Betty did not want to have to force Christina into the sigil. 

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and she turned to look behind her. Jughead was still wielding Elemiah and he stepped between her and the approaching spirit. 

A man floated into the light and he looked old, bald, thin, and tired, but most astonishingly, what was left of his arm was a horrific, bloody stump against his shoulder, with his bone grotesquely exposed and his blood staining half his body.. 

Betty controlled her revulsion. She had thought she had seen the worst of them, for she had encountered drowned spirits, and she thought nothing could look as terrible or frightening as the waterlogged remains of a man, but this spirit was an extraordinary fright. Still, she recognized his blood splattered face by the photograph in the Reaper file. 

“Stanley Maglin?” she asked. 

“It is I,” said the spirit. “I was waiting for you to call, but it appeared you weren’t going to. Were you not going to ask what I need to find peace?”

Elemiah disappeared and Jughead stood in his place, the back of his neck glowing blue. Betty noticed that his arm was held out in front of her, as if to protect her from the spirit, which was ridiculous, but then he began to move back, pushing them both across the invisible sigil so that it stood between them and Stanley Maglin’s spirit.

“You are welcome to give us your message or to make your request,” Jughead said. “We only wish to help.”

Stanley floated towards them but stopped just short of the trap. “My message… is that I never wanted the factory to fail. I never wished it ill. And I certainly was not the spirit who caused its misfortune.”

_ Spirits lie,  _ Jughead had said earlier, and she did not dispute that, but Stanley’s words struck a chord with her. She knew the truth when she heard it.

“My death was an accident,” Stanley said. “There were no spirits then. I knew because I was dead. I wished to stay to make the factory flourish. The second death, Christina’s, was an accident as well. The poor thing. I tried to help her. I tried. But I had been a spirit only days before. I knew not how to lift  _ anything.  _ When her father found her, she was already cold. I could not bear to watch his anguish. If you are looking for a murderous ghost, it was never me.”

Betty was trying to weigh the implications of what he had said and she looked to Jughead to help process it. 

“That entity in the basement,” Jughead said. “It isn’t you, is it?”

“It was never me,” replied Stanley. “I never kept any of the spirits from leaving. They stayed because they had nowhere else to go. Only I am trapped. Please… take me away from this place.”

Betty felt a hollow chill from the pit of her stomach as she realized who the entity was. She had never encountered a corrupted child spirit before. She never believed they were capable of corruption.

A cold draft blew at the hairs on the back of her neck and she whipped around, just in time for Jughead to summon Elemiah to shield her and Jughead from Christina who was coming right at them. 

Elemiah batted Christina away with his wing, causing the shadow wraith to bounce haphazardly back into the darkness. 

Jughead called Elemiah back into him, his eyes alert as it moved from shadow to shadow. Neither of them could tell where Christina was. 

Christina did not look like the child Betty was speaking to earlier. This entity was a dark, spidery black, with glowing yellow eyes and clawed hands. 

When Christina emerged from the darkness, it stalked them, moving sideways and around them. 

She felt Jughead pulling her, making her cross the sigil again, this time in the opposite direction. If Christina lunged, she would be caught in the trap and they could bind her in a vessel.

Christina giggled, her childlike laugh echoing through the building. “I can see your trap, Peace Dealer. I know what it is. Unlike the other spirits, I keep seeing. I keep  _ thinking. _ ”

Betty exchanged knowing looks with Jughead. Now they were certain. Christina had turned Wraith.

“I like your pretty dress,” Christina told her. “I like your hair. I like your eyes.”

Christina moved with sudden violence, and before Betty could make out what was happening, chairs were flying in their direction. She might have cried something to warn Jughead, but it didn’t matter. He had already donned Elemiah and she found herself wrapped in the protective shell of Elemiah’s wings. The chairs zoomed through them as if they were phantoms themselves, and when there were no more things to throw, Jughead withdrew Elemiah and searched frantically for the wraith. 

Christina had disappeared again, but Betty knew she was still with them. Sure enough, the overhead lamp exploded and rained glass upon her and Jughead. She threw herself away from the falling shards and Jughead did the same thing, falling in the opposite direction, separating them as they sought to protect themselves.

It was exactly how Christina wanted it. She came at Betty with clear resolve. 

Betty felt Christina’s cold, spectral hands plunge into her chest, but because Betty was Kin, Christina could not enter her, and Betty found herself being pushed up against the wall, hanging there like a pinned doll. 

Christina screamed in fury, sending little pieces of garbage, debris, and furniture flying in a vortex around them. Betty could see Jughead through the clutter, ducking but failing to avoid the large pieces, some of them striking him until finally a typewriter caught him on the head and sent him sprawling to the ground, conscious but dizzy. 

Betty struggled to fight Christina off and she felt something cut sharply at her temple. There was broken glass everywhere. 

The familiar heat at the back of her neck pulsed warmth through her body, and Betty found herself able to press her still bloodied hand upon Christina’s spectral forehead.  _ “Nalvage!” _

The invocation pushed Christina off her, sending Christina flying to the other side of the hallway. Betty dropped to the ground in a clattering heap and all the flying debris came crashing to the floor around them.

As Christina melted into the floors, Betty crawled hurriedly to Jughead’s side. 

“Jughead!” she cried desperately. “Jughead, speak to me!”

He groaned but pushed himself off the ground, Elemiah’s form enveloping his head and healing the bump that had begun to grow. The bump dissipated and the bruise lightened. “I will feel that in the morning, Daemon healing or none… you are bleeding.” His fingers were cool against the skin of her forehead.

“It is nothing,” she said, helping him to his feet. 

“Where is Christina?”

Betty tilted her chin to the pool of paraplasm on the floor. “She must have gone to the basement.”

A grimace curled Jughead’s lips. “Of course.”

“Can we force her out?”

“With the size of the basement? We’ll need a haystack worth of burning sage.”

She frowned. That did not sound like a viable option. “Can we compel her into a sigil like the others?”

He shook his head. “She is too strong for it. We’ll need a different sigil. A Holding Sigil. I can show you--”

“Charles taught me that,” she said. “I’ll do it.” 

“We’ll need fresh paraplasm from Christine to complete it.”

“She left us a nice supply,” Betty said, looking pointedly at the paraplasm on the floor. 

“Excellent. Draw the sigil while I distract her. She will come at us, but wielding Elemiah, I can better protect us.”

Betty nodded, gathering the materials they needed. As they hurried down the steps to the lower floors, Jughead gave her another cursory look. 

“Are you sure you are not in pain? It looks like you might need stitches…”

“No worse than you. You’ve still got a bruise on your face,” she said. 

“Mine is already healing.”

She couldn’t say anything to counter that. 

As they approached the basement doors, Jughead activated the crystalizer. “You’ll need light to complete the sigil… what was it that you did earlier? With Christina when you pushed her off you?”

_ “Nalvage?  _ It’s very old, I’m told. The only translation I can find is ‘be gone’ but I’d imagine there’s more to it--”

He rolled his eyes. “I know what it means. I’ve never seen an invocation without a sigil.”

She chuckled. “Another one from the annals of Charles’s notes. There  _ is  _ a sigil. You just don’t see it and I will tell you all about it, later. Are you ready to capture Christine?” 

He nodded, throwing open the basement door. 

Jughead was instantly Elemiah and Betty hurriedly made her way down the staircase. As she reached the basement floor, she immediately fell to her knees and began clearing a space for her sigil.

No sooner had she pushed the dust and debris aside when Christina came roaring out of the shadows, stirring up anything that wasn’t clamped to the floor. Jughead, wielding Elemiah, protected them both while trying to distract Christina away from Betty. 

Betty worked quickly, taking the blood from her forehead and palm to trace the smaller but more powerful sigil on the floor. It was difficult with her wound already beginning to clot and the distraction of wind, dust, and all sorts of foreign objects battering her from all sides, but she pushed through the dirt getting in her eyes, managing to complete the sigil. 

A wrench came flying at her and she ducked, but it caught her on the back of her shoulder and she fell to the ground, gasping from the pain and struggling to clear her muddled senses. 

As she began to right herself, a large sheet of metal sailed towards her in the gale. From the corner of her eye, she could see Elemiah going towards her, but he was too far away to make it, and Betty knew that in about two heartbeats, she would be sliced in half and her life would end. 

The sigil was complete. Jughead would have to invoke it and capture Christine by himself.

As the sheet of metal came slicing towards her, that burning heat at the back of her neck spread so hot through her body that she was certain she would explode from the inside out. 

Sabathiel’s name rang through her mind, but in a voice that was not hers.

Bright blue light blinded her and Betty could only squeeze her eyes shut, afraid that the blue fire would burn her eyeballs. 

She felt her heart hammering in her chest, and the wind still howled around her, but she was alive, she was breathing, and the metal sheet was on the other side of her, clattering like thunder as it lodged into the concrete wall. 

That it hadn’t sliced her in two was a miracle, until she realized she was encased in the blue glow of wings. When she looked up, she expected to see Elemiah, but instead she saw a face that, until then, she had only seen in her dreams. 

Sabathiel looked down at her, kind and calm, unbothered by the hurricane surrounding them. The safety she exuded washed over Betty like a cool spring, and even in the chaos, Betty could feel the joy of finally calling her Daemon to help her. 

“B-Betty!” Jughead’s voice cut through the gale, his hands clutching first her shoulders, then her face, as if he were convincing himself that she was still alive and whole. There was still panic in his eyes, and Betty had to hold his face in her hands to quell his panic.

She did not need to say anything, and however long they had to stay this way, she knew they were safe for now, because they were encased in the protective circle of Sabathiel and Elemiah’s wings. Inside her, she could feel not only one, but two entities tied by an ethereal thread.”

But Elemiah shifted and spoke, “Forsythe. Christina’s spirit is gaining ground.”

And just like that, Betty felt transported back to the chaos, the buffeting winds, and the noise of scraping metal and collapsing steel.

She felt Jughead’s caress on her cheek a final time and he was off, fighting Christine back again. 

Betty looked up at Sabathiel who nodded in encouragement. Gathering the paraplasm that Christina had left them, Betty used it to trace over the sigil she had drawn. The moment she completed it, she placed her palm in the center of the sigil and invoked it. “ _ Barinu!” _

The effect was instant. 

Christina froze in mid-air as if trapped in ice, and every moving and flying object came crashing to the ground. 

Betty couldn’t help but scream when a boiler crashed noisily nearby, but she held onto the sigil, knowing that if she let it go, the invocation would be negated. She braced herself for any hard objects that may fall on her head, but nothing else came at her and the boiler settled into a harmless, groaning roll. 

Jughead had put Elemiah away and he was now striding towards Christina’s bound phantasm. He took out her vial, drew the sigil on the ground with chalk, activated it with his own blood, and said the invocation. Christina got sucked right into the vial without a sound. When Jughead capped the vial, Betty released the sigil and regarded Sabathiel beside her.

“You’re here.” She said with breathless awe. “Why now? Why not before?” 

Sabathiel’s fathomless eyes stared back. “You needed me. You both did. Never before that.”

As Betty let Sabathiel’s words sink in, her Daemon faded and she was once more surrounded by the dark destruction of the basement. 

She found Jughead waiting for her to speak and only then did she realize that her shoulder ached ferociously. “My shoulder is on fire.”

He paused, as if he had expected her to say something else, then he smiled, kindly. “Did something hit it?”

“A wrench.”

He cast her a look of sympathy before gesturing for her to head up the stairs, first. “Brilliant sigil casting, Betty. I could not have done any of this all by myself. Summoning the ghosts to chat was a tad tedious, but...”

“You complain, but it was the only way you knew how before you were sent to academy. And perhaps it gave us the slightest advantage over Christina, getting the ghosts to come to us and clearing the field for us to take Christina down.”

“True. I submit to the effectiveness of your methods. We can perhaps come to some happy medium…” His voice trailed, and she could tell that he wanted to talk about something else, but he did not go on, and she did not insist. She wasn’t quite ready to delve into this afternoon’s more profound themes of life, death, and fate. 

As they emerged from the basement, Betty was mildly startled to find Stanley’s spirit waiting for them. She had forgotten about him in the chaos of events. He looked much less ghastly than when they first saw him. He was now at least fully formed, though he still bore traces of blood. 

“I am free,” Stanley said. 

“You are,” Betty confirmed. “Are you ready to go on your way Mr. Maslin? I’ve heard your request and I’ll be sure to communicate that you were not the cause of the trouble here.”

Stanley nodded. A bright light shined behind him, a slow vortex against the dim hallway. As it grew brighter, Stanley’s phantasmal form faded, and gently, the light disappeared, and there was nothing left but the factory. 

“I am exhausted,” Betty finally admitted. “And bruised. And bleeding.”

“We must go home and see to your injuries. And I must concoct this report--have it ready for submission tomorrow.”

Some ice for her shoulder would be much appreciated. 

She touched her hair and realized that she had lost her hat. She did not feel like going back into the basement to retrieve it. Her finely constructed bun was in shambles, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care too much. 

Moose didn’t even blink upon seeing their rather disheveled appearance. Betty’s dress was dusty and torn in parts, which was only distressing because she didn’t bring many of them. Her shoulder, where it met the wrench, was horridly sore, but that injury was unseen. Jughead’s head injury, though mostly healed, was still evidenced by the remaining bruise on one side of his face, and his coat was worse off than her dress. 

“All spirits accounted for?” Moose asked. 

“Yes,” Jughead replied. “All seven of them.”

Moose seemed impressed. “Been a while since you’ve been assigned a multiple haunting.”

“Quite right,” Jughead replied, opening the carriage door for her. “I might ask about that. Out of curiosity.” 

Betty looked at him askance. “Good thing you had a partner.”

He smirked but did not reply as they both got into the carriage and shut the door.

*********************

His hands shook. Not so much that anyone else could see, but the little trembles that beset them vibrated deep, in his chest, in his spine, and the back of his head. He had thought Betty was lost. He thought that he had brought her here to New York with the promise of a new exciting life, only to be snuffed out because he was the fool who thought this was nothing more but a nostalgic romp. 

He was a scourge. He got his partners killed. Charles should have never trusted him with Betty’s care. 

He fought to push those thoughts back now. 

He had to tell himself that Betty was alive and well. That she had saved herself, because that was her way. She was stronger than him. 

He wished, fervently, to sneak off and seek relief from the dragon peddler--just a few puffs to settle his nerves, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell his old lies, the ones he used in the past to get away and indulge his vices, because it was Betty he now had to lie to. 

He couldn’t do it, so his hands trembled all the way home in the carriage, letting his eyes close so he could feign exhaustion. 

“Jughead?” Betty had asked at one point in the trip. “Can I help?”

There was no fooling her. He put out his hand and she clasped it. Tight, and he didn’t need to say anything else. 

The tremble dissipated immediately, eased by the calming waves of Betty’s presence.

**************************

Only one day in New York and already Betty had immersed herself in a 7-ghost haunt, with a Shadow Wraith, and her newly emerged Daemon. 

How Jughead ever thought that Betty’s arrival in New Kin City wouldn’t bring any degree of extraordinary happenstance was beyond him. He had been naive enough to believe that they could have an interesting, enjoyable day that meant window shopping at the Ladies’ Mile and bathing in the ambience of New Kin City’s Central Park. He should have known that Betty never did things in halves even in her resting state. 

Not that he blamed her, nor was he the least bit inscenced. 

After his shock of nearly losing her dissipated on the way home from the factory, he realized that as harrowing as the experience was in parts, working with her and arguing with her was invigorating. 

He may have declared to the high heavens that he worked better alone--that was true before and after he and Trevor were partnered--but one had to have a partner to move forward in the Guild, so partnered he must be. 

Apart from Moose, whose natural tendency was to let him do what he needed to do, Trevor was the only partner Jughead got along with, and he had wondered, time and time again, what made Trevor so bearable. 

Trevor was a kind soul, for sure. He possessed a naivete that was both endearing and infuriating. He trusted too quickly and he let experiences take him, not because he was mild mannered, but because he was fearless, and eager. It made Jughead take the role of the skeptic, the one who was supposedly the voice of reason, the adult who reluctantly went along with the adventure because  _ someone  _ had to make sure they all made it back in one piece. 

Thinking on it now as he stared at Betty’s disheveled appearance, swaying gently to the cadence of the carriage, Jughead realized that Trevor, while not a mirror of Betty, had similar tendencies. 

Betty and Trevor were not the same. 

Trevor liked to make known his openness and willingness to experience--to belong, while Betty liked to skirt the perimeter, to observe so that she can make her own way. They were both of them fearless, but Trevor was an optimist, while Betty’s grit was born of confidence and stubborn resolve. They were both highly competent, but Trevor was born and bred to excel in academy, with set goals, while having an occasional tendency to break the rules, and in doing so, he can also quote, chapter and verse, the punishments outlined in the bylaws for the offense. Betty was honed by the Southside streets, self-trained to a great degree. She went by no book of rules. She went only by strategy, success, survival, and integrity. 

In Trevor, Jughead had found the things he missed most about having a partner. Today, Jughead realized that the thing he missed most had been her. 

In Riverdale, Jughead had worked mostly with Charles, for Charles had been overly protective of his little sister. Jughead knew that Charles partnered  _ with  _ Betty, and on occasion, Charles would bring both of them along for milder cases, but when Jughead and Betty were left to their own devices, often during social gatherings or when studying Charles’s lessons at Elm, they were always together, looking for mischief, plotting, investigating.

And even knowing, remembering how perfect their partnership could be when they were so young, their impromptu teamups over the last week had surpassed any memory he may have had of the younger Betty Cooper. She was magnificent, impulsive, courageous, and  _ damn good  _ at what she did. All before her Daemon emerged. 

Now here she was, with her Daemon finally quickening, a fantastic gargoyle just like his. He had questions, for sure, but now that Sabathiel had emerged, he felt the presence of a Daemon other than his and he knew, profoundly, that there was a connection between his Daemon and hers. He was certain. They were bound, and it was the sort of knowledge he felt no hurry to discuss. Betty would bring it up, anyway, because she always sought answers. 

Jughead’s New York home did not afford him space to have an office of his own, but the Jones’s small library, rarely frequented by the others, was Jughead’s favorite space. It offered a sunlit commonspace, with an old but comfortable couch, an equally comfortable but hideously styled sofa chair, and a mismatched tea-table and chair set. The books were an eclectic combination of fiction, the sciences, his old academy books, some new reference books about the spirit realm, and a generous pile of penny dreadfuls--something both he and Jellybean amassed with equal enthusiasm. 

Betty lay sprawled on the couch, hair loosened from her hat and coif, and a cooling bag propped against the back of her shoulder with pillows. Why she hasn’t summoned her Daemon to heal her shoulder, Jughead dared not inquire. 

Perhaps she, like her mother, saw her Daemon as a vulnerability. Betty struck him as the type to carry on until she couldn’t. That grit was ingrained so deep that if Jughead did not keep a close eye, it may prove to be the death of her. 

He sat on the sofa chair, ankle crossed over his knee. The book he was reading lay closed on the side table. If Betty preferred silence, he would start reading it.

“So,” Betty began as she stared up at the ceiling. “What shall you put on your report?”

What, indeed? He could very well omit the part Betty played. It kept things simple. Straight to the point.

But he was finding that harder to do than he first thought. What she did in that factory was incredible. Courageous. She went into that haunt, knowing there would be seven ghosts, one of which was a Shadow Wraith, and did her duty-- _ before  _ she knew she could summon her Daemon. It had been an extraordinary feat, and he wanted to tell everyone what she did. He was proud of her. Proud of what she could do. 

So he was considering including her in his report. He could tweak the story to make it seem like she arrived without being invited. The latter required  _ more  _ lying, but it made her contribution known. 

That said, he couldn’t help but recall their argument at the factory, about the methods of the Guild sending spirits to the Otherrealms. It was only then did Jughead begin to understand why Charles was so cautious about letting Betty exist among the Kin. Jughead himself had succumbed to the ways of the Guild. Perhaps he had, as Charles said, been removed from Charles’s indoctrination too soon. Jughead remembered the small pang of discomfort he first felt when the academy told him that it was perfectly acceptable to compel spirits to move on, regardless of their wishes or disposition. Before then, the only spirits he had seen compelled were the malicious ones. At the academy, they were taught efficiency, and considering the sheer number of cases in New York, his conversion to the methods of the Guild happened quickly enough. 

Betty would not be so easy, and perhaps that was Charles’s point. Perhaps Charles believed in the old ways so much that he wanted them to be strong enough to hold those traditions sacred. Charles knew Jughead was lost when Gladys took him away to the city, but Charles was able to accomplish with Betty what he couldn’t with Jughead--imbue that stubborn resolve to Peacedeal in the old ways. To stay true to the teachings of their forefathers. 

“I don’t know what to put in the report, Elizabeth.”

She laughed. “Oh,  _ Elizabeth.  _ I am surely in trouble, aren’t I?”

How could he think so when he was always the first to enable her? “You have put me in a difficult position. I want to protect you, but I do not want to take credit for your exemplary work.”

She scoffed lightly, slinging her arm over her eyes. “I do not need protecting, nor do I wish to take credit for this. You need not suffer the consequences of my actions, unless… if you were caught lying, the consequences may be worse than if you had told the truth!”

He laughed. “I did not consider that in the least, but you could be right.”

She sat up to look at him. “Truly? Surely an upstanding Peace Dealer such as yourself would be allowed some manner of leniency.”

Jughead thought back on the many lies his parents had to concoct to cover for the fact that their son was a recovering addict. There were days of missed work, messy outcomes, sudden disappearances from social gatherings, until finally, he had to be gone for a while, detoxifying and grappling with his demons. 

Charles most certainly would not have been proud, and Jughead was afraid to ask his parents: did they ever tell Charles?

Nothing was confirmed; nobody knew for certain why he went away. If he had been a woman, people would have suspected an unwanted pregnancy. As a man, he had the privilege of being given the benefit of the doubt, with stories such as traveling to Canada to further his studies, or—because of his partner’s death, seeking solace for his grief with the native tribes up north. If anyone suspected an opium addiction, the rumor did not propagate beyond a handful of people.

Be that as it may, there were those who were suspicious of his excused hiatus, and have been scrutinizing his every move. He could only suppose that assigning him to a 7-ghost case was precisely another attempt at setting him up for failure. 

Leniency would be the last thing he’d get if he were caught lying. And yet he was uncertain of what consequences outing Betty would bring, what with Charles being so cautious of letting the Kin know of her.

Charles had been so meticulous about his estate and affairs. It was hard to believe he  _ forgot  _ to explain all his reasons for his secrecy—about his excommunication, keeping Betty away from the Kin, “preparing” her, and summoning Jughead at his death _ .  _ Whatever Charles held back, it was deliberate, and Jughead had to wonder why. He was also very annoyed that he couldn’t make any informed decisions because of it.

“What would Charles do?” Jughead asked out loud.

Betty sighed. “Charles is gone, Jughead. I am afraid we are all we can turn to.”

There was that pang of sadness and grief that struck him silent, and he was so focused on grappling with it that he did not notice how Betty had left he couch until she was settled on the floor by his knee, her hands resting lightly on his armrest, with her fingers brushing his elbow.

“I am sorry, Jughead. I—forget that it has not been so long with you, this reality of Charles gone. It was thoughtless and beastly of me to say that.”

He could not be mad with her for this, but he could not help but feel grateful for caring. “It isn’t your fault. You only had your mother when it happened, and I’d imagine that Mrs. Cooper handled it her way.” He did not want to sound judgmental of her mother, but he could suppose Alice was not the tenderest grieving partner.

Her answering smile was tinged with sorrow. “Mother always abhorred showing weakness. She put us all to task making arrangements—it kept me busy and distracted, I must admit, and after Charles was cremated, she indulged me three days to grieve, which was me locking myself in my room, hoping and praying that Charles’s spirit would show up.”

Jughead wished he could have been there for her. He squeezed her arm in a comforting gesture.

“But,” she continued with a sigh. “Mother’s grief regimen did help me to move on. It helped that she quickly established a routine, and while she did worry about the state of our upkeep, she likely knew that at some point, you were going to arrive to rescue us.”

“If by rescue, you mean appear before a notary public and sit through hours of meetings with attorneys, culminating in me lifting my hand and a featherlight pen to sign multiple dotted lines, then it was the lowest bar of skill level imaginable.”

Her soft laugh was a pleasant balm to his grief. “The transition may have been tedious, but blood brother or not, Charles would not have left you his estate if he didn’t think you earned it, Jughead. He trusted you. That comes from years of hard work.”

He felt undeserving of it, but he thought it unnecessary to point that out. He decided to steer back to their original discussion. “He trusted that I will act in your best interest.”

Betty scoffed, but she did not seem angry when she said, “You can’t determine the course of my life, Jughead. Only I get to do that.”

“Yes, but I can affect it. The answer to what Charles would do is that he will lie to keep you safe, and that is precisely what I will do.”

She tossed him a gently chiding look. “Now I am truly afraid that I will get you in serious trouble. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps the truth would be wiser.”

“I would rather not risk it,” he said, firmly. “I should start on that report, by the way, but I am quite tired. It has been a full day.”

She nodded. “It has. You can retire for a bit, if you wish. Take a nap, mayhaps. You need not stay here on account of me.”

He wanted to stay here. He wanted her presence to anchor him. He wanted to brand into his bones the fact that she was alive, so he wasn’t staying on account of her. He was staying on account of himself. “I thought you were lost, Betty. It’s--” He looked at his hands. “I could not describe how it felt.”

“You were right. She came when I needed her.”

“We both did. You were not the only one she saved.”

She paused her pacing, turning to him with her hands on her hips. “Before Sabathiel emerged, I heard someone calling her name. It wasn’t my voice.”

“It was mine.”

Betty resumed her pacing. “Sabathiel heard you, then?”

Jughead could only assume. They were Bound and their Daemons were as connected as they were. While it was true that Daemons weren’t exactly sentient, separate beings, they had their own well of wisdom and intelligence. They were there when their Kin needed them, even when they only spoke when spoken to. Sometimes it felt like they offered unsolicited advice, but Jughead knew after all these years that Daemons literally saw into one’s soul--they knew what you needed sooner than you did, and their interest has and always will be the protection of their Kin. For the Bound, their Daemons protected their Other, as well. 

“Sabathiel did,” Jughead finally said. “Just as Elemiah will hear you and go to you if you summon him.”

She stopped pacing then, her thoughts drawn on her face. “Is it as you say then? That we’re Bound?”

He nodded.

She sank onto the couch. He’d imagine that the thought would be overwhelming to her. He’d had time to ponder this for years. She was only now letting the implications set in. 

“Will you know everything I do?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Of course not. We are still individuals, you and I. We can set boundaries. In fact, that would be the recommended route, but we can depend on one another, too.”

He could see her shoulders tensing at what he said. 

“In equal measure,” he added quickly. “And only when necessary.”

Her stare was directed at the floor, and even without their bond, he could tell she was thinking a million things. It occurred to him then that while he thought being Daemon Bound made them special in the best way, Betty could be thinking the exact opposite. 

He felt a hollow in his stomach, and it surprised him that this possibility felt like a punch to the gut. “We can exist apart, Betty,” he added quietly. “This does not mean we are obligated to--to work and live toge--”

She put up her hands to stop him. “That is not--that is not what I am thinking.” She finally met his gaze. “You are my best friend, Jughead. That will always be true, bound or not. You understand this, don’t you?”

It was the one thing that he had clung to, all these years. Child-like confessions on train platforms notwithstanding, her friendship held his best memories. It made him unafraid to go back to Riverdale, again and again, even when the bindings prevented him, even when Charles’s death prompted him. “Betty, we were friends before you received your Daemon. The only thing being Daemon Bound changes for us is the fact that we are better at managing our mischief together.”

She smiled, then, laughing perhaps at the very notion that the Fates had, in effect, enabled them. He laughed, as well, and she sprung to her feet to get her purse. 

“This gift will be apropos, then--to celebrate Sabathiel emerging and being Daemon Bound to each other’s better half.”

“But I got you nothing--”

“Oh, you’ll have something, I promise.” She brought out a box, wrapped prettily in printed paper and twine. She was seated by his knee again, and her closeness felt like the gift itself. 

He unwrapped the parcel, uncovering a lovely box, and within it, a fountain pen and ink jar. The pen fit right in his grip, and along its body, crafted around its barrel under a fine layer of resin, were cogs and gears.

“Like the inside of a watch,” Betty explained. “That brought us back together. Consider this as payment for all those letters you wrote to me, none of which I’ve received.”

He shot her a chiding look but he punctuated it with a small grin. “It is beautiful and thoughtful. Thank you.”

“As for  _ your  _ gift to me--”

“I have nothing.”

“Those letters, I think, belong to me.”

Trepidation made itself known as his heart began to hammer in his chest. “Some of them--the ones I kept writing after I knew you wouldn’t get them, they were intensely personal…” 

The mischief in her eyes softened. “Forcing you is the last thing I want. Give me only what you are willing to share. I won’t be picky. I wish only to feel more connected to you, Jughead.”

His anxiety waned, relief slowing the beating of his heart. He felt a pleasant warmth at the thought that she wanted to be closer. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to share with her the earliest ones among them. “Wait here.”

He went to his room, digging out the box that he had kept beneath his bed. At some point, the frequency of his letter writing had stuttered to a glacial pace, but there was plenty at the beginning. They were carefully grouped in twine, arranged by year. He took the first batch--a handful the equivalent of six months. 

When he returned to the library, he handed them over to her. “You are not allowed to make fun of me for anything I wrote in those letters.”

She held them to her chest. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Your words are safe with me.” She looked at the letters in her hands. “Thank you, for your trust. And--I really am glad we are Daemon Bound. It just seems a little overwhelming at the moment.”

He had read many books on the subject, but he imagined that experiencing it first-hand still offered a world of discovery. “We will investigate this reality together--the way we always do when we are chasing down a mystery.”

As her eyebrow arched, he found that it was hard to stifle his grin. 

She cast him a cockeyed glare. “You are as sly as you are clever, Jughead Jones. You know I can never resist a mystery.”

He was counting on it. “It was the thing I missed most about you--your constant quest for answers. You can be relentless about it, too.”

“It drove you mad. Does it, still?”

He nodded, wide-eyed with affected gravity. 

Her laughter rang out. “You were supposed to say  _ no.” _

“Oh, was I?” He missed this, too. The easy way they teased one another, and how while everyone thought her laughter so hard to earn, he found no difficulty in eliciting it. 

“You are the only person who understands me and my strange ways.” She nudged her shoulder gently against his, her eyes bright with mischief. 

The gentle touch, the slight lilt of her shoulder, and the soft cascade of her hair suddenly reminded him that teasing this Betty was not the same as teasing the younger one he had left in Riverdale all those years ago. 

The realization brought a tinge of heat rising up from his chest, but before he could think of it any further, Kevin appeared at the door, a letter tray in his hand. 

“Keller,” Jughead said, inexplicable relief loosening the tension in his shoulders. 

“Young Master Jones. A messenger dropped this off for you--said it was from Master Mason.”

Jughead frowned at the implications. If Moose had something to say, why did he not just use the aural communicator? 

_ Because your communicators are Guild-issued. _

“Did he use a Guild messenger?”

“I don’t believe so. The messenger was the farthest from official I’ve seen.”

Jughead took the message and unfolded it. 

_Vis-à-vis_ _the report. Others aware of 3, not just 2, participants._

Jughead sighed, crumpling the note in his hand.  _ Well, that did not take long.  _

“Jughead? Is everything alright?”

He looked over his shoulder, unsure of what this new development may bring. “Ah, Betty. I surmise things are about to get more interesting.”

tbc

  
  



	8. A Most Riveting Day Indeed

Jughead normally did not like having to wake up early to go to work. He did not find pleasure in watching the sun rise out of the horizon. If he could sleep through mornings, he would, but his responsibilities precluded him from enjoying that luxury, so he felt entitled to resentment on a certain level. 

He didn’t often get a lot of sleep, to begin with. He habitually stayed up late in the night thinking, reading, and completing self-assigned tasks. At the height of his addiction, his body grew even more confused and resistant to following a proper sleep schedule. His sobriety had only minimally improved the situation--his mind was constantly speaking to him. . 

Even when he did manage to still his mind and find sleep, his hours were minimal--four hours daily, six when he had no need to go to work. He felt fortunate, then, that the Kin had adapted the concept of the “week end” where five days of the week, employees were required to work, and Saturday work hours were optional. Sundays were officially work-free days. 

Especially having grown up among the Locked,where the practice was not so common, Jughead had a full appreciation for this day of rest.

So it was extraordinary that the last two nights, he’d slept for seven hours each night, which made him wonder--given the state of his connection with Betty, if his sleepless nights could be attributed to her having spent many nights gallivanting all over the South Side, and that now that she was in New York, with so far nothing to motivate her, as of yet, to hunt rogue spirits late at night, she was getting some rest, and in turn allowing him time to sleep as well.

Admittedly, it would be silly of him to blame this bad habit on Betty. The fault was not hers. The fault was entirely his for always looking inward, for having looked to her for the companionship of her thoughts, for something she was completely unaware of until now. 

He’d just had a full seven-and-a-half hours and he was awake at half-past five in the morning. He did not even feel slighted by this. 

He had awoken refreshed, and after a quick smoke at his window, watching the sky grow lighter and hearing the birds awaken, he showered--a modern convenience common for the Kin--and dressed.

He was roaming the house with quiet steps by 6:30 and it was an interesting experience to hear the sound of the floorboards, walls, pipes, and the ticking of tiny mechanical gears without other people’s sounds to overwhelm them. 

It was perhaps why, coming from the dining room, he could hear hushed voices coming from the foyer.

As he peeked around the bend of the hallway, he saw Moose and Kevin speaking, their heads inclined towards each other. 

Since receiving Moose’s message the previous afternoon, Jughead hadn’t heard from anyone else at the Guild. Both his mother and father hadn’t come home early enough for him to catch either of them. He’d been a little agitated since then, and while Betty showed concern, he didn’t want to worry her at all. He had assured her that he wasn’t going to get in trouble, that this was just Moose watching out for them, and that however much Peace Dealers liked to gossip, it tended to be harmless fun--a means to pass the time while in the Guild locker rooms. 

He wasn’t sure Betty believed him, but if she detected any dishonesty, she chose to leave him alone with his thoughts, for his sake. 

She had told him, her eyes boring into his, that if he needed anything, “Anything at all,” he knew where to find her. 

He had wished fervently that he would stop thinking about the possibilities that could be assumed from those words. 

That Moose would be at their house so early in the morning instinctively twisted his gut with anxiety, but he checked himself. This could just be Moose spending time with Kevin.

Jughead had known for months that their butler and his pseudo-partner were getting along very well, and while Moose had spoken to Jughead candidly about his fondness of Kevin, Kevin had made no mention of their budding relationship in the slightest.

Sighing, Jughead melted back into the corner and pretended he hadn’t seen them at all. In deference to Kevin’s wishes, he rattled a console to signal his arrival, and true enough, by the time Jughead rounded the corner again, Kevin was standing formally to the side, Moose’s coat perfectly draped over his arm. 

“Mason,” Jughead said, nodding. “You’re early.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

Kevin, with professional poise, spoke with mild formality. “Can I offer you gentlemen anything? Some coffee?” 

Jughead’s eyebrow arched questioningly at Moose. 

Moose shook his head. “I won’t be long, Keller. Just need a moment with Jones. I’ll stop by your quarters before I leave. Is that alright?”

Kevin’s eye twitched, but he said nothing and Jughead had to stifle a sigh as he said, to ease the awkwardness, “Mason, garden, library, or rooftop?”

“Rooftop,” Moose said, already making his way up the stairs.

Jughead could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock from the receiving room as they trudged up the steps, it was so quiet. The rest of the house was still asleep, so Jughead spoke in a whisper as they ascended. “It may benefit Kevin to know that I don’t care what his preferences are. Maybe casually mention that to him?”

Moose scoffed. “Oh, he knows that, Jones, but just like you don’t wish to discuss your personal relationships with anyone else, Kevin is private about that sort of thing, too.”

Jughead shot Moose a glare. “What personal relationships? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Moose rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Jones. I listened to your conversation with Ms. Cooper in the carriage yesterday. If I did not know you better, I’d think you a seasoned Don Juan, with quality lines like _ ‘your ability to inspire.’ _”

“First of all,” Jughead began in a restrained tone. “I would ask you not to eavesdrop on my conversations with Betty while you drive. You almost turned our carriage over yesterday! And _ what I said _was not contrived. Betty is no fool and she will not tolerate such nonsense. Finally, what does any of that have to do with Kevin?”

Moose laughed. “Nothing. Nothing at all!” 

Which, to Jughead, sounded like the complete opposite. 

Jughead chose not to pursue that conversation, opening the door for Moose as some kind of passive-aggressive gesture, which Moose didn’t seem to give a care for. 

Mornings in New York were particularly cool, and Jughead had to tuck his coat closed in front of him to stay comfortable. 

Moose brought out a cigarette, lighting it before he settled his elbows against the ledge. “You might consider being truthful in your report. It will give Cheryl Blossom less ammunition to make your father seem a fool.”

Jughead sighed. Cheryl was--as he had been told, a fierce ally, but a ruthless opponent. When she got something in her head, she would do almost anything to get what she wanted. “We knew it was Cheryl. Assigning me to yesterday’s mission was her idea.”

“Not on paper, it wasn’t. Someone assigned it to your father so he could assign it to you, and while we know it’s Cheryl’s poison, there’s no actual proof it was. She was likely hoping that you would fail, or should you succeed--do so, messily. Even with my assistance, I doubt I would have been able to complete the task with the same efficiency as you and Ms. Cooper. _ Something _would have gone awry, and even if it didn’t, it would have been enough to make the case that your father botched the assignation, sending his own son alone into an impossible case.”

A soft growl of frustration escaped Jughead. “Well, he did just that. _ He _didn’t know Betty would help me. He sent me out there thinking it would just be you and me.”

“He sent you out there under pressure from people he had no power to push back on. And I don’t think he knew there would be a Shadow Wraith. I don’t think he would have sent you on your own if he knew that.”

Moose was right, of course. Jughead was glad of his father’s sobriety and how he went from drunk gang leader to respectable Guardian in the Guild, but the intricacies of politics had at times left FP fumbling. 

To be fair to his father, Guild politics was a churning sea of sharks. Everyone at one point or another was bound to make mistakes and bleed. 

“Did Cheryl know Betty would be there?” Jughead asked.

“I don’t think that was known until after. I’m sure she did not expect that someone else would be there to help you do the job well.”

Jughead supposed Cheryl could have sent someone to spy on his progress. All they had to do was watch the events unfold from across the street. 

“Then again,” Moose added with a slight lift of optimism in his tone. “It could be argued they have no proof.”

Jughead shook his head. “If they’re smart, they would have proof. If they went into the factory after us, they could have captured proof in photographs. Betty and I drew our own sigils. She had to draw the Holding Sigil in the basement because--well, it doesn’t matter.” He stared at the early morning cityscape. 

“Capital,” Moose said, blowing cigarette smoke out from between his lips. “With my sigil in the courtyard, they’ll be able to tell by the sigil signatures that three different Peace Dealers were at the scene.”

“Honestly,” Jughead grumbled, irritably. “I should have known this was Cheryl’s play. Cheryl wasn’t going to sit down and let father get away with Jason’s suspension.”

Moose scoffed. “He did not get Jason suspended. Jason got Jason suspended. Cheryl should know that. She is smarter than this.”

“We all know Cheryl has a blindspot for her twin. Ms. Topaz complains about it all the time.” 

This was quite the quandary. If he lied about Betty not being there, Cheryl would call out his lie. If he told the truth, Cheryl may very well use that against his father, anyway. 

“The truth will set you free, Jones,” Moose said, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette. 

Jughead couldn’t blame Moose for the advice. To anyone else, it was the better way forward. To Jughead, given Charles’s reservations about introducing Betty to Kin society, it was unclear. 

He already knew what Betty would say. 

There could be another way. “I need to speak to Cheryl.”

**********************

Guardian Cheryl Blossom, like Guardian FP Jones, had her own office and her own staff, apart from heading her own department of Peace Dealers. She dispatched her people to various cases, dealt with the usual administrative foibles of a bureaucracy, jockeyed for high-profile projects, and bumped shoulders with Guild leadership. Her duties and her position were equal to that of FP Jones’s in all respects, and in many ways, even their challenges were similar.

Like FP, she had to prove that she earned her position by her own merits and not through the influence of her family. Like FP, she had the special dispensation of having a family member on staff. And now, like FP, Cheryl was dealing with issues pertinent to that family member. 

The difference in the last situation was that FP was able to contain Jughead’s addiction before it reached the eyes and ears of the Guild. In Cheryl’s case, it was impossible to overlook the mess that Jason made in his last case, where multiple possessions occurred and someone--Locked, got killed. 

During Jason’s incident, backup had to get called in, other Peace Dealers had to be there to contain the situation, and FP himself made an appearance at the scene of the disaster. He “sanitized” the scene while Cheryl accompanied her twin brother to the infirmary. 

That FP testified at Jason’s inquest was inevitable, and while his recounting was confined mainly to the aftermath, Cheryl had chosen to direct her wrath and frustration of her brother’s suspension at FP, precisely because she suspected that FP had gotten away with protecting his son, and additionally because she seemed to share equal blame for something someone else had done. 

Having been the object of the addiction cover up, Jughead could not help but feel a great sense of guilt and responsibility, both at compromising FP’s already fragile integrity and benefiting from the hypocrisy of Guild politics, where a former drunkard is given the benefit of the doubt while a capable woman in a position of power gets disproportionately blamed for the shortcomings of her brother. 

Jughead walked the halls of the Guild each day with a sense of both gratitude and unworthiness. Gone were his early days of superiority and arrogance. He had graduated from the academy top of his class, leagues better than his peers having gained a strong foundation from Charles, but since Trev’s accident, and then his subsequent addiction, Jughead had come to realize that nobody, especially himself, was infallible. 

These days, he was still confident of his abilities, still believed himself to be good at his job, but he knew what he’d been. Knew that his father and mother had to make sure that the secret of his addiction never came to light. He’d sullied his stellar reputation with some questionable behavior and he had to earn back people’s good opinion of him to a certain degree. 

He felt that his progress and his father’s sacrifices would all go to waste if Cheryl’s need for retribution were left unchecked. 

As he walked through the doors of Cheryl’s department doors, he could feel the eyes of the few Peace Dealers upon him. It was early enough that the only Peace Dealers there were the remainders of the night shift. It would be another two hours before the regular shift began. 

He acknowledged them briefly with a tilt of his hat before he continued on for Cheryl’s office. 

Her doors were open, and her staff surrounded her, carrying clipboards and documents they needed her to sign or consider for later examination. Her deeply red hair was intricately braided and draped over her shoulder. Her pouty lips, pointy chin, and rather perfect nose made her a very attractive woman, and Jughead knew from the talk in the locker rooms that many had aspired to gain her favor on matters pertaining outside of work. 

She looked up from her pool of assistants and saw him. The arch of her eyebrow at his appearance said nothing of his upcoming reception, but after signing a few more documents, she told her staff to vacate the room, gestured for Jughead to come in, and told Frederick, the last one out, to close the door behind him. 

Jughead found himself enclosed in Cheryl’s office as she settled herself behind her desk and linked her hands atop it, she glared at him with unreserved venom. 

“Sit, Jones. Stop looking at the window. I will not permit you to crack it open so you can smoke as we speak.”

She was certainly in a mood. 

Without complaint, he settled himself in one of the seats in front of her desk, putting his hat aside. This was not likely to be a quick conversation. “‘Twas you who got me sent to the factory yesterday to take care of seven spirits all by myself.”

Her eyebrow arched higher and Jughead could have sworn the corner of her blood red lips lifted the tiniest bit. “Whatever do you mean by that, Jones? I have no authority over your assignments. Ask your father. Did he not assign you to this himself?”

They both knew that there were many assignments handed down from leadership to the Guardians. It was how Guardians found favor and moved up in the ranks and also how many Guardians failed and got pushed to the shadows, if not ruined completely. Everyone in the Guild was in a constant chess match for power, and when you were a Guardian, you were in the lowest tier of the highest-stakes arena. 

“You and I both know that my own father would not have readily volunteered to send me on a mission like that all by myself. Pressure was applied, for sure, for even if they were just seven ordinary ghosts, he would not have come to that decision lightly.”

Cheryl pretended to be shocked. “He probably thinks very highly of Mason. Was probably thinking Mason would help you. Did you not do well, yesterday? I heard you bagged that case with utmost competence.”

Jughead already knew she would play innocent to the very bitter end. With Cheryl, one had to be straightforward and fearless. “What do you want, Ms. Blossom? Whatever grievance you may have, take it out on me, not my father. He worked hard to get to where he is now. You may be aware that his road was harder than any of ours.”

Cheryl scoffed. “I am aware, but he should have known better than to testify against JJ.”

“It would have been impossible for him to refuse,” Jughead said in a mildly tired tone. “What did you expect him to do?”

“I don’t know, Jones. How did he manage it when his son was behaving strangely? Somehow, he finagled a month-long hiatus for you, besides.”

Of course she would bring that up and he did not have much of a leg to stand on concerning that, so he did not argue. He stayed the course. “He wasn’t the only one who testified against your brother, Ms. Blossom.”

She cast him a sidelong glance and leaned back on her seat. “But his testimony held the most weight. He is a Guardian. The rest of the testimony came from forgettable Peace Dealers.”

“I am glad you think so highly of him and so little of us.”

She made a sound of disgust. “Please. Humility is an atrocious color on anyone, most of all you, Jones. You very well know some Peace Dealers are more important than others, like my JJ, and you, as much as I hate to admit it.”

Sometimes Cheryl confounded him. “Oh, so you _ do _think that this isn’t purely a meritocracy.”

“I am not some doe-eyed Sally. It is not what you know, it is who you know.” She stood from her seat to pour herself a glass of rum from her decanter. “Of course, it takes skill to stay where you are and to climb higher, which is why I am here, and as for you, I’ve always admired your results. I expect you will go places, as well.”

“You are too kind,” Jughead said through grit teeth. He wished Cheryl would get to the point. “So what is it that you want? Get my father removed from the Guild?”

She sipped her rum. “That is what I want, yes. Eventually. This little stunt won’t get him removed, but it will chip at his credibility. This is just one among many moves against him that I can make. But you did not come here to beg for mercy empty handed, did you, Jones?”

Jughead put his hands out. “I have nothing to give you that you don’t already have. Perhaps a favor I can offer you in the future?”

She laughed, softly. “Oh, Jones. You sell yourself short. You have much to offer me, and I need you to give me everything.”

“What could I possibly have?”

“Put in a transfer,” she said. “Work for my department instead of your father’s.”

Jughead knew it was going to be painful, and his parents were going to be furious, but he could manage this. “Done. So long as you accept the report I submit without contest, then I will put in my transfer the day after.”

She frowned, her chin hardening. “I’m not finished, Jones. In light of the disaster that my brother has brought upon my reputation, I am going to need more than you to bring back my polish. I need something more powerful than that.” She sat back on her seat and reached for her bottom drawer. 

She took something out of it and plopped the item right on the table between them. 

Jughead was no fashion expert, but he knew distinctly what he was looking at. It was Betty’s hat. The hat she wore on their day out, yesterday. The hat she lost fighting Christina in the basement. 

“I’m sure you know what this is,” she said, cocking a grin. 

“It is a hat. A rather nice one, if a bit dusty.”

She flicked her fingers over the top of it where the so-mentioned dust had settled. “Whoever owns this hat has good tastes. Whoever owns this hat was with you yesterday at the factory, helping you put away seven spirits with utmost competence. I know she helped you because there were three sigil signatures present at the scene, and I know from the records that one is yours and the other is Mr. Mason’s. The third one belongs to the lady who wore this hat. Who is this lady that helped you, Jones?”

“Her identity is not important. If I remove her from the reports, no one will need that information.”

She glared at him. “_ I _ need that information. We haven’t had a woman Peace Dealer in this Guild for decades and I highly doubt you would have let some two-bit amateur help you with yesterday’s Reaping. Whoever she is, you believe in her skill. I want her in this Guild and I want her in my department. She is what I need to revitalize my reputation. She will shine and I will be golden again. If she looks as good as her taste in hats, that is even better. If you and her both work in my department, I will let you say whatever you wish to say on your report _ and _I will drop my vendetta against your father.”

This was completely unexpected and Jughead was not prepared for it. “She isn’t here anymore. She left for her hometown yesterday evening.”

“Did she? And where is that?”

“Ohio.”

Cheryl was rendered silent, no doubt by his audacity. And sure enough, a heartbeat later, she was laughing sardonically at his expense. “You take me for a fool.”

The last thing Jughead wanted was to insult Cheryl any further. “Absolutely the opposite of that, Ms. Blossom.”

She was not having it. “You get that woman in my office, Jones. You have no other recourse--you lie, I will expose your lie and it will be judged harshly by the Guild. If you tell the truth while insisting on your lie that she has left town, we both know that will be risking your father’s credibility, letting his son do as he pleases without consequence. Choose your poison.”

Everyone did say that the Blossoms were handy with toxins of all kinds. 

“I am neither her master nor her keeper. Her application to this Guild rests solely on her willingness to work for this establishment.”

“Have you never tried to bend anyone to your will?” Cheryl asked with clear disdain. 

He frowned. If he told Betty about all of this, she would not need convincing. She would do this for _him _and that is the opposite of integrating her into Kin society her way. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “I find it hard to believe that you forced her to help you at the factory yesterday. It is not in your constitution to force a lady against her will, and a woman who can help you put away a powerful Shadow Wraith knows her own mind. She made this her business when she chose to help you.”

Jughead was hardly surprised that Cheryl knew about the Shadow Wraith before he could submit his report, but it did give him pause. “Did you know about the Shadow Wraith when you had me sent in there? By myself?”

Cheryl’s steely gaze wavered momentarily. “You are the best this Guild has, Jones, and you had Mason. I didn’t believe for a moment he would let you fight that Shadow Wraith by yourself.”

Jughead sighed and stood, shaking his head as he did. “Mason is the best at what he does--logistics, healing, warding, but he left his ambitions of Peace Dealing at Stonewall. He does what he does now for his greater goal, which is to become a physician, and that has everything to do with keeping people’s spirit _ in their bodies. _A Shadow Wraith would have known that we were at a disadvantage. We could have been killed, Ms. Blossom.”

Her lips curdled to a pout. “W-Well, you weren’t. I was confident you would have accomplished the task with your usual competence.”

He sighed and tucked his hat back on his head. “I will submit my report, and it will include no one but myself and Mason. I may even leave out the Shadow Wraith, since it probably got left out of the Reaper Report through some tampering. If you wish to contest the veracity of my report, do so. I won’t have you forcing anyone into service, least of all the woman who helped me yesterday.”

He turned to leave, and as he walked out the door, her silence was strangely unsettling to him. The Cheryl he knew did not take kindly to defeat. This was, he supposed, only the beginning.

***********************

Ms. Attoinette Topaz, known as Toni to those closest to her, was waiting for him outside Cheryl’s department doors. 

Jughead tried to school his features as he tipped his hat at her politely and carried on. And as he predicted, she followed right in step with him. 

Toni was a petite young woman whose pink hair almost always made an immediate impression. She was an Inker dedicated to her craft. Her kind, more than anyone, were keepers of history, culture, and the arts. She was a fledgling compared to the masters she was learning from, but she was well-favored for her combination of talent and raw instinct. 

“Ms. Topaz,” Jughead said. 

“How many times must I tell you? Call me Toni.”

And he’d said so, many times--not at work, but she always did eschew formalities. 

She seemed, however, undeterred by his cold shoulder. “Busy morning, I gather? You’re here awfully early.”

How quickly news traveled these halls. “I could say the same of you.”

“I am always early. So did you take the deal? That Cheryl offered?”

Jughead stopped in his tracks and turned to her with a look of distinct annoyance. He could barely find the words to begin. 

Toni did not seem the least bit bothered. “What? Cheryl and I tell each other everything. And that she offered you a deal at all was my suggestion. She was willing to just let your father burn, so you’re welcome.”

He whipped her a sidelong glare before continuing on his path with bigger strides. “You need not do me or my father any favors.”

As expected, Toni had to gather her skirts to keep up with his pace. “It is not a favor. You know I owe FP my life. Without him, I would still be--”

“Stuck in the Southside, I _ know.” _

“Rotting,” she corrected him as she hurried along with him. “Rotting in the Southside. I would be trapped in indentured service with the Locked… you know all this. Why do you seem so upset right now?”

Jughead felt no obligation to tell her. 

“Jones!” he felt her grab his arm and he sighed, turning to face her. One look at his face and she knew. “You didn’t take the deal, did you?”

“You of all people should know that nobody has a right to make promises for someone else, which Cheryl is asking me to do with my friend.”

“Your friend? The woman from yesterday, yes? At least _ tell _this woman what Cheryl has proposed.”

Jughead wanted to pull at his hair in frustration. Is there nothing Cheryl keeps from Toni at all? “That is the point! If I tell Bet--_ her, _she will feel obligated to accept it. It’s not right. She will take the deal blindly. Will she even be allowed to negotiate her pay? Or would she have to accept the lowest possible salary? Not to mention the fact that she must go through the trials. I doubt even your belle can circumvent that for her. All recruits go through it, no exceptions. I cannot put her in that situation.”

Toni crossed her arms over her chest and he noted that she was looking distinctly angry. “I understand what you mean, Jughead, but don’t you think that is still for her to decide? This woman is close to you, isn’t she? You almost said her name just now. It’s Betty, isn’t it? Betty Cooper. Your cousin, or your mentor’s sister, or your lover, maybe—“

“She is not—!” He clipped himself, realizing that his voice had risen a decibel. “Ms. Topaz, check your speech.”

She blew a disdainful huff. “She trusts you, so if you say nothing to her about this and she finds out, I promise you, she will begin to doubt that trust--”

“You know nothing about us,” Jughead hissed through grit teeth. “Do not presume to know.”

She scoffed. “I know that a woman who refuses to let her man go into a haunted factory alone will not be coddled.”

Heat suffused his collar. “I am not her--” He pursed his lips, realizing that he must not let Toni bait him again. She didn’t understand a single thing. She didn’t know what it was like for those like them--the Bound. She didn’t know their history. She didn’t know the promises he made to Charles and how Jughead swore to protect Betty for as long as he could. 

Before FP saved Toni from Riverdale, she knew nothing of loyalty or trust. She survived on her own, living by her own wits, seeing the world through the lens of a Southsider who recognized greed at every turn, was always suspicious of kindness, and saw reliance on any one person as a weakness. 

Toni knew nothing of Betty and their situation. Toni had her own reasons for encouraging him to take the deal, none of which have to do with Betty’s best interest. 

“Stay out of it, _ Antoinette _,” he said, casting her a warning glance before turning to leave.

“I told you!” she cried after him. _ “Call me Toni!” _

******************** 

Jughead was not at the breakfast table. Neither was FP. This morning, only Jellybean and Gladys were there, and while both seemed affable, Gladys gleeful invitation was slightly unnerving. 

“I am so glad we can all sit together and have breakfast without the men,” Gladys said. “I can’t bear their silent disapproval, sometimes.”

Betty settled beside Gladys, loosening the table napkin on her lap and whispering her thanks to Kevin, who had poured her some coffee in a cup. “Surely Mr. Jones Senior wouldn’t dare.” For she knew Jughead certainly stewed silently when it came to his mother. 

Jellybean laughed through the toast in her mouth. “Father is just more subtle about it.”

“Well, they both left early,” Gladys said, “so we can talk about more interesting things. Did you enjoy your tour yesterday, Betty?”

Did she. “Exceedingly, Mrs. Jones. I’d like to do it again, see even more things. I can do it by myself, too, if that’s permitted here, that is.”

Gladys frowned. “And why wouldn’t it be? You are in the city now, my dear girl. We can get around without a man to escort us.”

Betty felt a slight heat up her cheeks, but she was too pleased by the reply to feel too embarrassed by it. “I want to make sure. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“You’re a smart girl and I believe you have the sense to stay out of mischief. Do as you please. I encourage it. Do you have pocket money?”

Betty bit her lip and nodded. She was suddenly reminded of how the pocket money she had would eventually run out and she would have to turn to Jughead to replenish it. With Charles it was easy. With Jughead it felt strange. Would it seem as awkward for him as it would be for her? She could tell he did not enjoy the idea of being her financial lifeline, especially since she surmised that he didn’t think the money his, even if Charles had put his name on it. 

“I have a map,” Jellybean said. “I devised it myself--for the trains and trolley system. You can get a chaise, of course, but those are always more expensive. I can give you the map if you like.”

Betty could barely contain her excitement. “A map would be lovely.”

“Did Jughead show you where the Guild is?” Gladys asked. 

It wasn’t one of the things Jughead showed her, and she wondered if Jughead purposely kept her from it because of Charles’s reluctance to introduce her to it. That was likely, but to Betty’s mind, she had to be introduced to it at some point. “No. Is it far from here?”

“It’s a ways, but it is easy to get to,” Gladys replied. 

“It is marked on the map,” Jellybean said. “A lot of things are marked on the map. You’ll see.”

They discussed a few other matters at breakfast, with both Jellybean and Gladys offering to take her to work with them some time in the coming weeks. Betty was glad she was able to have these conversations with the women in the house. 

After breakfast, Gladys turned to her and said, “Your brother, Charles… he did not have a good relationship with the Kin, did he?”

It still made Betty sad, that his people turned him away. She shook her head. 

“I know you have questions and he probably didn’t tell you anything--that is common among those who shared his fate. They risk inflicting the same thing on their family if he shares the details of his situation with anyone else. That is the only reason he didn’t tell you.”

Hope bubbled in Betty’s chest. “Do you know anything about it, then?”

Gladys seemed surprised. “I know absolutely nothing, my dear. Such records are sealed. I do not even know where to look for it. I only tell you this in case you doubt his reasons for keeping things from you, from those closest to him. I am sure even your mother doesn’t know, but you can ask her. I know that if anything like that happened to Jughead, I would extract that answer from him one way or another.” She grinned and Betty noted a hint of steel in her eyes. 

Betty had no doubt Gladys would be a force to reckon with, which made her wonder, was Gladys fishing for answers? “It is never easy getting answers from mother.”

Gladys smirked. “I’d wager not.” She took her hat and hooked it beneath her arm. “I will see you later, my dear. I quite enjoyed having the breakfast table to ourselves. We should arrange for a shopping spree, you, Jellybean, and I. What do you think of that?”

“It sounds splendid,” Betty replied, managing to push her lips into a smile. 

Gladys chuckled, perhaps not the least bit fooled. She turned and Kevin reappeared, following her out through the hallway. 

Jellybean took Betty by the hand. “Let me give you that map before I leave for work.”

Betty nodded, letting Jellybean drag her back up the stairs, but as she looked over her shoulder, she saw Gladys watching them. 

Gladys gave her a wink of acknowledgement before turning her attention back to Kevin. 

Betty began to wonder. _ What does she want from me? _

**********************

Betty had three things on her agenda today. The first was to examine Jellybean’s map and plan to explore New York and New Kin City independently. The second was to write her letters and mail them. The third was to read Jughead’s letters to her. They were not in order of priority. She wanted to read Jughead’s letters, first. 

She didn’t expect his words to move the earth beneath her feet, but his thoughts, written down, as he imagined him speaking them to her, felt intimate. She looked forward to enjoying his missives by the sunlight streaming through the library window. 

As for Gladys Jones, she was a mystery for another day, and one she would have to venture into carefully. She was yet to understand the relationship Jughead and Gladys had built, from where Betty had to examine the wisdom of sharing her suspicions with Jughead or keeping it to herself. 

It seemed strange to consider keeping secrets from Jughead. They were Bound. Could she even keep secrets from him or would he be able to read her thoughts? 

_ Your thoughts will always be yours to give or keep. _

She supposed she knew that to be the case. 

Betty cracked open her pocket notebook and scribbled points of interest that presented itself on Jellybean’s New Kin City map. There were spots she could explore on her own, like the Hudson river, where she could first be at the docks and later get on a horseboat or a ferry to see the city from the water, or she could visit the churches, with their solemn but intricate interiors and storyfied graveyards. New York had its own attractions, but she was more intrigued by the evening offerings: the very tantalizing “nightclubs”, which even Betty had heard about all the way up in Riverdale. McGlory’s was marked on Jellybean’s map, and Betty had overheard the sons of rich men speak well of the place, with its live music, dancing, and vaudeville acts. They also spoke sheepishly of the “liquor, girls, and gambling”, which Betty supposed was an unavoidable reality. Disreputable places did not scare her, but she understood social mores, and she was willing to play to a point. 

She hoped Jughead might accompany her to McGlory’s, and she didn’t mind going out as Chic. It would be quite the romp to dress him as a gentleman--it had been far too risky in Riverdale, where the upscale crowd may recognize her. New York would be the perfect place to try Chic as a gentleman of means. 

With her plans for adventure laid out, she turned to Jughead’s first letter of _ October 2, 1869, _ and opened it with a fair bit of trepidation. Would he mention her declaration on the train platform? They’d talked about it the first night she was here, and the things he said felt real and profound, but she wanted to know what his thoughts were at the time--when he was younger, when all she had to go by was his look of total confusion and shock. 

It was evident by the letter that he wished she were in New York with him. 

> _ “This city is a cornucopia of curiosities, with wonders lurking at every corner. I wish, with all my heart, that I can paint you a picture of it, for words do fail me, as they never have before. If you were here, you would say to me, ‘Let us find mischief before it comes looking for us.’ And I, even with all the misgivings of a seasoned Southsider, would say, ‘Lets.’” _

His descriptions further down the parchment of New York was wondrous, indeed, but she was touched by how he seemed to imagine them exploring and causing trouble at every turn, together. 

> _ “If there ever was a museum without the bother of glass cases and crumbly artifacts, it would be New York City. There is something to learn here at each avenue and street, with each person you meet. There are stories and cultures everywhere. It flavors the food and enlivens the music. _
> 
> _ You and I once pretended that we were on safari--much to my chagrin, for I believed myself too old then to be wearing costumes and play-acting, though I enjoyed myself very much. In our game, we were observing the wildlife, and to get closer, we had to pretend to be like the lions and gazelles. I find now that that game had a valuable lesson, for I assume that in order to find the gifts of this city, you must walk and talk like a New Yorker, as I have been observing my mother has. This place, too, is a jungle, except there is metal and masonry instead of trees and mountains, people instead of animals--where instead of predator-prey, it is the prosperous and the poor. Or perhaps there is predator-prey, only less teeth and claws, more words and deeds." _

He spoke of this house, too. New to him, then, about how it was “tall” but not wide, how it had three floors, not including the rooftop and cellar. He was gobsmacked at having his own room, how _ everyone _ had their own room, and a guest room besides that. He compared the house to Elm, only shrunken and stretched in height, and he referred to it as his _ mother’s. _ But Betty’s favorite part was when he spoke of the library. 

> _ “Mother keeps a library, with books that, I surmise, are worth more for their decorative spines than for their contents, but even then--have we not looked upon a row of seemingly tedious medical tomes only to find such disreputable gems like _ St. Bernard’s: The Romance of a Medical Student _ and _ The Whore’s Asylum _ hidden amongst its respectable shelves? A library always has its secrets, and the joy of it was always the finding of those secrets with you.” _

She reveled in the notion that he always remembered her as his partner in crime, and that he thought so fondly of it. 

But for all the interesting new things he spoke of on his first day in New York--on his birthday, no less, he spoke of himself later in the letter. 

> _ “Mother feels like a stranger to me, and even if she never raised her hand to me in the past, I seem to expect, at every turn that she would hurt me, because each time I look over my shoulder at her, I prepare myself for the notion that she would be gone.” _

She remembered what it was like when he told them of his departure. She had been outraged at the very idea that Jughead was leaving with the mother who left him with his oft-drunken father. She thought Gladys a liar and that FP was, as expected, unconcerned about the implications. She was so focused on herself that she had barely given any thought to how Jughead himself may have felt, or perhaps how Charles had felt. 

Charles and Jughead knew they were brothers. Charles took Jughead in to care for him as a brother would. Charles clearly had plans for Jughead to succeed him, and yet one call from Gladys and Jughead was packing his things and moving to New York City with her. It must have hurt for them both--to be separated.

And Jughead. He must have felt alone. Jellybean was a stranger to him, too, and back then, his relationship with his father was still riddled with resentment and distrust. Jughead had no one to turn to but pen and paper. 

> _ “I wish that I had taken you by the hand on that train platform this morning and whisked you away to this adventure. _
> 
> _ “I’m sure Charles would have been furious with me--escaping Riverdale with his little sister. _
> 
> _ “I’m sure that would have caused you a world of trouble, but you might have liked that, anyway, and I have very little doubt that you would find a way for us to get away with it. _
> 
> _ “Your humble servant, and the Narrator to Your Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin, _
> 
> _ Jughead Jones” _

She folded the letter closed and took a moment to relish its contents. She thought that while Jughead Jones’s letter had no romantic intent, it was deeply romantic to her. 

A soft chuckle escaped her. 

She should have known, of course, that reading these letters would only serve to strengthen her feelings for him.

She told herself she would read only one letter a day, but she contemplated reading all she had at once. 

It was too tempting, and she was just about to open the second letter when Kevin appeared at the library door.

“Mr. Keller,” she said. 

Kevin nodded in a mild gesture of acknowledgement. “Ms. Cooper, you have a visitor--two, in fact.”

Betty was so surprised that all she could do at first was arch her eyebrow as she let Kevin’s message marinate for a few heartbeats. 

When she was certain Kevin was not joking, she regained her poise. “Two? Well, that’s extraordinary. I was never so friendly.”

She could have sworn the corner of Kevin’s lip twitched, but even so confounded, a horrifying possibility began to emerge from her imagination. Could it be that the toughs and roughs from the Southside had figured out her disguise and went out of their way to follow her to New York? Could they have stumbled through the portals and found the Jones residence? It couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it? Was she in danger? Were _ they? _

Her thoughts brimming with these alarming scenarios, her eyes widened as she asked, “Did they say who they were, Mr. Keller?”

He appeared to be sensitive to her panicked tone. “They are not strangers to this home, Ms. Cooper. They are--” he paused “--Mr. Jones’s friends?”

This did assuage her panic, at least. “Are you telling me or asking me?”

Kevin gave the front of his coat a mild tug. “Just like you, Mr. Jones, Jr. was never so friendly. I don’t know if these ladies gave him much of a choice, to be perfectly honest. Would you like to see them? Or shall I send them away?”

“No! I mean, of course I would like to see them. I will be at the receiving room, shortly.”

Kevin gave a pert nod. “Very good.”

“Oh, and Mr. Keller. If I am to live here for the time being, please, call me Betty. And if you need anything at all, please do not hesitate. I will be happy to assist you.”

His shoulders did not soften in the least, but his lips did hint at a smile. “I appreciate it, Betty.”

He left then, and Betty hastened to put her things away in her room before making her way down to the receiving room. 

It was just half-past eleven in the morning. A rather awkward hour, but perhaps it was customary in New Kin City to visit just before lunchtime. 

Betty wasn’t sure what to expect. Jughead hadn’t told her much regarding his friends, acquaintances, _ or _lovers. What if one of these ladies were the latter? How was she to react? Would she be able to school her expression? Make it seem like this was a pleasant meeting in spite of what would assuredly be raging jealousy in her heart? 

She stopped just shy of the receiving room entryway to calm her admittedly rattled nerves. She stilled her fingers, which she realized were twiddling the ends of her ponytailed hair. She clasped her hands in the front of her in a dignified manner, took a deep breath, and fixed a smile on her face. 

The two women speaking quietly on the couch rose to greet her. 

“Ms. Cooper!” said one, an open smile on her face. The other stayed quiet, though she managed to lift one corner of her lip as her eyes traveled over Betty from brow to toe.

They were both petite in stature, both incredibly attractive, and both with piercing dark eyes. But there their similarities ended. 

Kevin was there, and he introduced them accordingly. 

Ms. Veronica Lodge, owner and proprietor of New Kin City’s nightclub du jour, La Bonne Nuit, and the youngest daughter of Prime Guildsman Hiram Lodge, was a dark-haired beauty. She wore what appeared to be the latest in Parisian fashion, in colors as regal as they were rich. That she was a business owner--of a nightclub, no less--struck Betty as immediately impressive. She also recalled that Ms. Lodge was mentioned at breakfast, previously, as the one who sent Jughead a personally written invitation and whom Jughead did call friend.

It was Ms. Lodge whose smile was open and welcoming. 

Ms. Antoinette Topaz, though seeming more reserved, was intensely striking. Her hair was a noticeable shade of pink. Her dress was also made of the finest material, but Parisian fashion, it was not. Her colors were deep and dark, black, red, and metallic. There was lace and leather, and her arms were covered with Marks and tattoos. She was an Inker, like Sabrina once had been. 

Inkers were revered in Kin society, obviously because they were responsible for providing the Kin with the Marks that would enable their Daemons to quicken. They were also trained to provide Daemons with enhancements. Inkers were known to have the ancient gift of Daemon Augering. They, and only they, knew what a Daemon should look like even before the young Kinman received it. It was once thought that it was the Inker’s Daemons that gave them that power, but the Kin later realized that the power was independent of the Inker’s Daemon, and that their Daemons only served to enhance their inherent gifts. Betty knew for sure that Sabrina was able to auger her Daemon, because she knew Sabrina to be Forsaken, and therefore bereft of a Daemon of her own. 

Ms. Topaz appeared to be the very image of an Inker, but that was all Betty could glean from her. She was closed off. Suspicious. Betty could not help but liken it to the guarded expressions of people who existed in the Southside of Riverdale. She’d seen the look on them all, from Dr. Masters to Sweet Pea, to street urchins and sailors. She had even seen that look in Jughead’s eyes, once upon a time. 

As Kevin introduced her as Ms. Betty Cooper, she realized with not a lot of trepidation, that her name included no distinction or occupation. She was, to these extraordinary women, nothing more than Jughead’s oldest friend, possibly a cousin, possibly a ward. 

Ms. Lodge did not seem to find issue with her distinct lack of apparent credentials. “We are your welcoming committee, Ms. Cooper.” She held up a carefully wrapped box. “We aren’t much, but when I heard that Mr. Jughead Jones had _ finally _ brought the legendary Ms. Betty Cooper into town, I just _ had _to come and meet you without him. He is a dear, but I don’t think he approves of half of what I say. To apologize for coming unannounced, I have brought you my favorite pie, from the most exquisite patisserie--Pop’s.”

Betty graciously accepted the box, still trying to make sense of the implication that Jughead _ talked _to Ms. Lodge about her, apparently constantly. She almost missed seeing Ms. Topaz roll her eyes as she stepped forward.

“In case you don’t know, Ms. Lodge is owner and proprietor of Pop’s, as well.” She held up a covered basket. “My welcoming gift is homemade, baked by my beloved, Ms. Cheryl Blossom. Hers is better than anyone else’s in the city--maple muffins. They are delicious and pair wonderfully with black coffee or dark tea.” 

Betty accepted the basket, noting immediately that Ms. Topaz had referred to a woman as her beloved and nobody in the room blinked. “Thank you, both. I am overwhelmed by your kindness. Shall we share these over coffee or tea?”

“If you have time to sit and chat,” said Ms. Lodge, quickly. 

Betty was amused by Ms. Lodge’s efforts to pretend that she hadn’t intended to sit and chat in the first place. “Of course, Ms. Lodge. It is only my second day in New Kin City and I am yet to make acquaintances outside of the Jones family to make plans with.”

Ms. Topaz’s eyebrow arched again but Ms. Lodge grinned. “Well, I am sure we can remedy that situation.”

Betty stifled the urge to say that she didn’t mean to hint that she wanted that situation remedied in the least.

Kevin offered to take the treats and prepare them for serving, and as Betty and her guests settled back down to talk, Ms. Lodge was already off, asking her superficial questions about what she’d seen, what she would like to see, whom she’d met, and finally, how long she was planning to stay here. 

Betty wasn’t sure what to tell her. “A while. I would like to stay in New Kin City indefinitely, but that is contingent on many things.” She said nothing more. 

Whatever Ms. Lodge inferred from her vague response, it seemed to enliven her curiosity even more. “Things like what, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Ms. Topaz sighed. “Boundaries, Ms. Lodge.”

Ms. Lodge waved her words away. “Ms. Cooper would tell us if we were crossing it, won’t you?”

Betty had the distinct feeling that Ms. Lodge was looking for a very particular answer to her first question, but Kevin walked through the door at that precise moment, rolling in a tray laden with plates of pie and muffins, so she took full advantage of the interruption to collect her thoughts.

As the pie and muffins were distributed, Betty oversaw the pouring of the tea. She was hardly done distributing cups when Ms. Lodge had another question to ask. 

“How long have you known the Joneses?”

“Since I was a child.” Betty replied. “But it is Jughead I was closest to. We were the best of friends during our formative years--his mentor was my brother and because we spent a considerable amount of time together, I considered Jughead my one true friend.” She passed Ms. Lodge a plate. “We were separated by circumstance--his mother brought them here, and I could not follow.” 

“Thank you, my dear. It’s just that Mr. Jones has mentioned you often enough that we’ve always been eternally curious about you.”

Ms. Topaz shot Ms. Lodge a glare. “We?” 

Ms. Lodge turned her nose up, her eyes flashing. “Yes, _ we. _You are the one who told me Ms. Cooper was in town.”

Ms. Topaz’s face turned so red that Betty could only suppose that Ms. Topaz, like any Southsider, considered revealing any part of herself a vulnerability. It was also very curious that a woman Betty knew nothing about knew _ she _was here.

Betty could only assume that even a city as big as this can’t keep secrets for long. “It must be a slow day in New Kin, if my arrival is being talked about, though I can’t imagine anyone would care—I don’t know anyone but the Joneses.”

“Ms. Jellybean Jones told me,” Ms. Topaz explained. “She and I collaborate on a great many things at work and she happened to mention you. I thought Ms. Lodge might find that information interesting so I told her and here we are.”

Ms. Lodge grinned in triumph. “That’s right, because just like anyone else, we’ve been dying to know more about the woman Mr. Jones thinks so highly of. His approval is impossible to earn, and yet he always speaks of you like you could do no wrong.”

Betty could feel heat rise to her ears. “I am sure he exaggerated. Jughead has expressed his disapproval of my shenanigans on many occasions.” It was, of course, always followed by Jughead enabling her. 

Ms. Lodge sipped her tea. “I am surprised he did not bring you here sooner.”

It was a completely harmless remark, but it made Betty wonder if anyone in New Kin city would have heard about Charles, and how he was excommunicated from their society. Would Ms. Lodge be fishing for that information? Betty would like to think Ms. Lodge innocent of such on-goings, but the intelligence in Ms. Lodge’s eyes was hard to dismiss. 

“I was too young then to be allowed to leave town on my own, and time and distance puts a toll on childhood friendships. But I am here now--excited to be here. I am grateful that the Joneses have taken me in.”

It felt odd, to be parrying words with Ms. Lodge. Jughead had called her a friend, and Jellybean certainly did not imply that there was more to it than that. It was reasonable to suppose that Ms. Lodge, vivacious as she was, just made it a point to keep the right friends--she was the Prime Guildsman’s daughter and Jughead was the Guild Ambassador’s son. It made some hierarchical sense. 

“It sounds lovely, and I am sure you will spend plenty of time--with the Joneses. Tell me, Ms. Cooper, do you abhor parties as much as Mr. Jones does?”

“Nobody abhors parties the way Mr. Jones does.”

“Well, that’s true. But would you come if I invited you, and would Mr. Jones be more forthcoming about attending if you were there?”

“Perhaps.”

Ms. Lodge gave her a look of curiosity. “Perhaps you’d come or perhaps Jughead would be more enthused about it if you were to be invited with him?”

Betty gave it a moment’s thought. “When we were growing up, I was too young to get invitations to grown-up parties. The invitations were always addressed to my brother, or my mother, and then to Jughead. One or all of them always brought me along. There is yet to be a situation where he and I were invited together, or separately together. I have no point of reference, Ms. Lodge.”

Ms. Lodge was not discouraged in the least. “Then this would be an experiment--one that I would most certainly enjoy performing.”

Experiments tended to go awry on the first try, Betty thought, but she herself was curious about Jughead’s reaction. She was half-certain that Ms. Lodge’s personality thrived on urging people past their natural tendencies. 

On the other side of Ms. Lodge, Ms. Topaz listened to the conversation with seemingly mild interest, but it did not escape Betty how her eyes remained ever alert. She was waiting for something, like there was something that needed to be said and she was biding her time. 

When the pie, muffins, and tea were done, Ms. Lodge had made plans for them all. They would have lunch--just the ladies, and she would send out invitations for a time and place. Betty would be receiving another invitation to her birthday soiree. 

This, Betty remembered being mentioned at the breakfast table the previous day. 

“I sent Mr. Jones an invitation which he simply has not responded to,” Ms. Lodge said breezily as they stood at the foyer. “I will send one to you, as well, and you will tell him that you wish to go to this party.”

The notion that she would want to go to a party was laughable, but Ms. Lodge seemed lovely, and she has gone out of her way to be welcoming. The least Betty could do is be friendly in return. “Oh, will I? Is that the plan to get Jughead socialized.”

Ms. Topaz snorted. “He will never be socialized. He is a grump for life. I think--_ oh. Oh, dear.” _

Ms. Lodge frowned. “What is it?”

“I seemed to have lost my glove. My _ favorite _glove.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, _Toni_\--”

“Go to the carriage and I will go back and find it myself. I won’t be long.”

Ms. Lodge was about to object, but Betty knew her window when she saw it. 

“I will help Ms. Topaz. It was nice meeting you, Ms. Lodge. I look forward to performing your experiment. What are we but chemical reactions of each other, yes?”

Ms. Lodge laughed, scolded Ms. Topaz for her absent-mindedness, and excused herself with Kevin helping her to the waiting carriage outside. 

Betty followed Ms. Topaz back to the receiving room, and when they were alone, Ms. Topaz did not hesitate to get right to the point. 

“You are as sharp as I thought you would be,” Ms. Topaz said, her tone gone of the mild gentlewoman she had been playing as all this time. 

There was great relief in it, for Betty to know that she wasn’t the only one who ever had to play a part. “You did not come here to welcome me, did you?”

This gave Ms. Topaz pause. “I told Ms. Lodge about you because I wanted her to pave the way. My intentions are not unkind, Ms. Cooper. I hope you realize this, but I needed Ms. Lodge because I am a jagged pill and I lack the skill, or the will, to be less abrasive.”

Betty believed that Ms. Lodge did not have to be manipulated into helping out a friend, but that was an argument for another day. “State your purpose, Ms. Topaz.”

She nodded. “I grew up in the Southside. I don’t know if you can tell.”

“I am familiar with the Southside,” was all Betty said. 

“I was meant to rot in that hellhole and the only way I was going to escape it was in a horizontal wooden box, if you get my meaning, Ms. Cooper.”

Betty understood what she meant, but she felt that there was a larger story to Ms. Topaz that needed its own tea-time. Betty couldn’t pretend that she knew everything about Ms. Topaz’s plight, but she was gaining a glimmer of understanding of the gravity of Ms. Topaz’s experience. “It sounds like a dire situation, indeed.”

“FP rescued me from it,” Ms. Topaz said. “I don’t know how he did it--he refused to say. Paid my dues, killed my master--I don’t know, but whatever it is, I do owe him something back. As you have probably figured out, I don’t take kindly to being in debt, whether I am held to it or not.”

Betty’s instinct to Peace Deal kicked in and perhaps to Ms. Topaz’s shock, Betty came up to her and clasped her hands. “Tell me how I can help.”

Ms. Topaz gave her a moment’s scrutiny before replying. “It is a complicated story, but the entirety of the matter is--because FP sent Jughead to the factory yesterday, FP’s judgment may come into question. Mr. Jones--Jughead knows that FP’s career will be put to the test, so he went to Guildsman Hall this morning to meet with Cheryl Blossom--to find out what can be done. He was given an offer, to _ fix _this, and he did not take it, so now he is risking both his and his father’s careers.”

A stone dropped in the pit of her stomach. She knew something had happened, knew something had been troubling Jughead about yesterday’s events. It wasn’t just that he was conflicted about lying or telling the truth. It wasn’t just that he was protecting her. This was causing trouble _ beyond _ her and she felt, keenly, that it was her fault for forcing him to let her help. 

“What was the offer?” Betty asked. 

“Cheryl Blossom wants you to work for the Guild, as a Peacedealer in her department. If you do that, all will be well for FP and for Jughead.”

Betty released her and let this information sink in. “And Jughead refused this offer, you said,”

Ms. Topaz nodded. “He walked away from it, but I have convinced Cheryl to wait a few days. I am making sure you are made aware, as I feel Jughead would not even venture to tell you.”

Betty could not help the irritation that welled up inside her. “Jughead and I tell each other everything.”

“We’ll see. He wants to protect you, I think. I suppose some women would consider that gallant.”

The disdain in Ms. Topaz’s voice was clear. She was a Southsider through and through, but Betty did not appreciate how Ms. Topaz was so careless with what was arguably one of Jughead’s defining qualities--his conviction to protect his own. Not that Betty wasn’t stewing on what seemed like Jughead keeping secrets from her to protect her, but he had a while yet before Betty could convict him. They would have to see if he took the opportunity to tell her everything. 

“Yes,” Betty said. “The Jones men do have a tendency to rescue ladies in dire straits, don’t they?”

Ms. Topaz’s lips tightened to a line. “I do this to protect FP. You will do this to protect Jughead.”

Betty appreciated the reminder that _ they _weren’t fighting. She took a deep, cleansing breath. “Yes. I understand. I need further clarification, but I will see to it. I hope to talk with you again, Ms. Topaz.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Betty was still turning that over in her head when she saw, through the receiving room window, that Ms. Topaz had rejoined Ms. Lodge in the carriage outside. She watched the carriage leave, and as it shrunk from view, Betty could not help but think that the women of New Kin certainly knew how to leave an indelible impression. 

*******************

It was half past the ninth hour before Betty heard the light footfall of Jughead’s boots upon the stairwell. She hadn’t noticed she’d been reading that long since having sat by her bedroom hearth and opened Anthony Trollope’s latest work _ The Way We Live Now. _

She might have been waiting for Jughead to come home, anxious about what Ms. Topaz had told her that morning, and whether Betty should bring it up at all or let Jughead bring it up himself. She didn’t quite know how she wanted to go about it, but now that he was here, she would have to see where their conversation would take them. 

She had hoped Jughead would make it to dinner that evening, but FP had sheepishly informed them that Jughead had accumulated a long list of unfinished reports that he had to get through. 

It had crossed Betty’s mind that his staying out late and Ms. Topaz’s discussion with her this morning might be related, but she hoped not. 

She cracked her door open and she watched him for a few heartbeats, his shoulders slumped and his feet almost dragging behind him, she called his name. 

He turned and cast her a tired smile. “Betty. You’re up late.”

She held up her book. “I was reading. Have you had dinner yet?”

He shook his head. “I thought I might just sleep it off, tonight.”

“Jughead Jones skipping meals? Are you ill?”

He quirked his chin, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I haven’t seen you at all today. I left the house before breakfast.”

“Correct, and I am dying to tell you all about my riveting second day.”

He chuckled. “Well, if you’ll give me a moment to change, you can tell me how your day went while I rummage the pantry for a late dinner in the kitchen.”

Betty recalled the many times in their childhood where they had sat together in the kitchen at Elm, supping late at night for one reason or another, often because he liked seeing a well-stocked pantry. It was only later, long after he had gone to New York, that Betty realized why--because he had nothing in his Southside home. 

“Like old times,” she said. “I will see you downstairs.”

He nodded and left to change in his room. 

Betty couldn’t resist a quick look in the glass herself before throwing on a robe and making her way to the kitchen for Jughead’s impromptu dinner. She was setting a pot to boil when Jughead appeared at the door, dressed down to blue linen pajamas and a robe. It was exactly like old times and Betty’s only comment was an approving grin as he moved around the kitchen, taking some bread and that evening’s leftover beef stew. He offered to set a place for her but she shook her head and showed him her tea instead. 

As he stirred the stew in his bowl, he smirked at her expectant expression. “So tell me about this riveting day of yours.”

Sitting across him with her knees pulled up and her bare toes wiggling restlessly over the edge of her seat, she began at a temperate pace, starting with breakfast and her study of the map of New Kin. She skipped to writing her letters to her mother and some of her contacts in Riverdale, after which she had ventured out of the house on her own to find the nearest post office. She explored some of the streets and surrounding parks, familiarizing herself with the area. 

“Are you planning to venture out late at night again?” he asked, half-serious. “Why are you learning the area so enthusiastically?”

She stirred some milk into her tea as she pretended to be affronted. “Do you take me for a hooligan, Juggie?”

His soft laughter made her grin. 

“Speaking of late, what kept you?” She hoped she could get him to tell her about his work and what manner of trouble he may be in.

“Administrative matters. The opposite of riveting.” He looked up from his food and grinned, his soft dark hair falling over his brow. His eyes were so blue against the aether-powered lights, and she remembered that as a child, these were the moments she thought him so unbearably handsome. 

“Tell me,” she urged. Contrary to what he may think, not everything has to be exciting and dangerous for her to be interested. His life, in particular, would always be of interest to her. 

He seemed amused by her encouragement, but he did tell her, from being there early morning to coordinate with Guardians from other departments, to closing active cases, to completing reports. As he spoke, she had to fight every urge to push that hair back from his eyes. 

Each time he told her about something, she noted the distinct lack of detail in his telling, and she did not know if this was a function of Peace Dealing--to be vague to those who did not work at the Guild, or whether it was something Jughead was doing on purpose. 

She did not like guessing his intention this way, and she did not like how Ms. Topaz’s revelations were giving her cause to test him. They were Daemon Bound. That meant they needed to trust one another. 

As the food in his bowl dwindled, she braced herself for the revelation. “There is dessert in the pantry when you are done.”

“Is there? Did you run out and get some for us?”

“Ms. Lodge and Ms. Topaz brought them this morning--pie from Pop’s and homemade maple muffins--as welcoming gifts.”

His chewing stuttered to a halt and his eyebrow slowly began to lift on one side. “Kind of them. Certainly not Ms. Topaz’s style…”

“It wasn’t. She used Ms. Lodge to get her through the ritual niceties.”

Betty felt the tension rising in the space between them. He said nothing, at first, and she feared he would leave it at that. 

_ Tell me the truth. _

“I am trying to protect you,” he finally said. 

She sighed and turned away from him.

“It is what Charles asked of me,” he added, clapping his hand over hers across the table, lest she walk away from him. 

She frowned but did not shake off his hand. “Charles is dead, Jughead. He is not here to tell you how we should conduct our relationship.”

It occurred to her in the seconds following her words that what she said was heavily pregnant with meaning. Everything about _ them, _from the moment he came to Riverdale, was freed from the rules that once governed it. 

When she was thirteen, she was a child, Charles was there to watch her like a hawk, Jughead was the grateful secret half-brother indebted to him, they were “cousins” by reputation, he and she came from completely opposite sides of Riverdale--their entire relationship was carefully nipped and tucked by invisible but powerful circumstances.

Not anymore. 

Things were different. The challenges were different, but they were now in control of their own lives. This was especially true for Betty who broke the tether that bound her to Riverdale when she got on that train to New York. 

His grip tightened. “It is what _ I _ want. _ I _want to protect you.”

“From what?” she asked, her chin jutting stubbornly. “From whom? There is nothing I’m not ready for. Charles made sure I’m well prepared for all the malignant spirits and Daemon Wraiths that may come for me--”

“He was never afraid for you on that front.” Jughead’s grip loosened and she found, as always, that the loss of his touch left her cold. “What he wanted was for you to decide your fate by your own rules--to not have the Guild make your choices for you!”

“And do you think, then, that you making choices for me as opposed to the Guild, is any better?”

She could see shades of red rising up his cheeks, but his eyes sparked with conviction and he stood from his seat. “I have and always ever will have your best interests at heart. Your future and well-being are my utmost concern and that is something the Guild will never give a care for!”

“Do you think, then, that I do not know what’s best for me?” she challenged. 

His steely gaze wavered. “I--that is not what I meant, at all. The Guild is doing exactly what Charles feared it would--have you playing by their rules to the detriment of your agency.”

She stepped into his space. “Is this how you wish our partnership to be? Do you want to take the lead?” 

“No…” His tone softened. “Not at all. But--”

“But nothing. Tell me what happened this morning. Tell me everything. I heard Ms. Topaz’s version of it. I would like to hear what you think of it.”

He sighed. “Betty, you are being swept into a fight that has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

“Except it does. We are Bound, are we not? If it involves you, it involves me. And perhaps it does mean that for now, I must play by the rules of the Guild, but it is only the beginning. They have no idea what I can do.”

His gaze did not waver, and for a moment the intensity of it was overwhelming. She had never captured his attention so completely, and they have never stood this close, nearly toe to toe, her nose to his chin. 

The tightness of his jaw only served to harden the resolve in his tone. “I will do what I have to do to protect you, Betty.” 

“Even losing me?” she countered, boldly. “Because if you refuse me this choice, I will take that to mean that you will never see me as your equal, and I refuse to be Bound that way, Jughead.”

He blinked then, his lashes feathering his cheeks as he measured the conviction in her eyes. She imagined that her gaze was never so determined. 

He lowered his gaze, then, perhaps to give her words some thought without her eyes boring through his. When finally, he looked back up, his eyes seemed softer, and he said, quietly, “We will always be equal.”

She wished to place her hands over the collar of his robe. To touch that small swath of skin peeking from his shirt, but she resisted the urge. “Then prove it.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his eyes taking stock of her face, perhaps lingering where she wanted him to linger. She could just as easily give him express permission to keep doing what she felt he might want to do, but then he moved away, melting back into his seat. He gestured at the seat across from him. “Please. It’s a long story.”

She nodded, sitting and making herself comfortable. She touched her cup and knew her tea was cold. “I have nothing but time.”

tbc


	9. Vivere Viventem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There is mention here of rubber bullets. They won't be used in this story, but during this time of real life protest, so many of our brave fellowmen and women are being silenced and threatened by these implements. Be forewarned that rubber bullets will be talked about briefly in this chapter.

Jughead told her everything that had transpired, from the moment he met with Moose to Toni’s ambush outside Cheryl’s office. He explained the motivations of Cheryl and of Toni, of the stakes involved with his father and the Guild.

He managed to give her a clear picture without mentioning his addiction, which was easy enough, since nobody but his family knew of it. Cheryl probably suspected _ something, _but she didn’t have any proof, nor did she rely on those suspicions to bolster her case. 

When Jughead was done telling Betty all he could, only then did she speak. “And did you lie in your report?”

He shook his head. “I have not submitted my report yet. It is everybody’s least favorite part of the job--submitting reports. Nobody is ever so prompt and so I thought I might buy myself some time--to think of another way, but I _ will _lie, to protect both you and my father.”

She drummed her fingers on her raised knees as she thought about what he had said, until she looked him straight in the eyes and asked, “Why Ohio?”

The skewed tangent of the question startled him, which seemed to be the desired effect, for she giggled softly. 

Ohio was where his mother ran off to abandon him, and it was the place that came to mind when he scrambled to blurt out a location he believed no one could follow. He remembered feeling how far away and remote Ohio was, how he simply could not run away from his drunk father and follow his mother and sister, whether they wanted him to or not. Ohio was where people went to disappear. 

He did not tell Betty this. What was important was that she wasn’t angry with him, because now she knew he had intended to keep this a secret from her, if Toni hadn’t meddled in their affairs.

“No particular reason,” was all he said. He had questions of his own. “When did Toni confront you with this information? Surely not in front of Veronica.”

“Not in front of Ms. Lodge, no.” She leaned over the table, the tip of her thick braid brushing over the surface as it dangled from her shoulder. “I should like to meet Cheryl Blossom. She must be formidable, indeed, if she is beloved by someone as clever and calculating as Ms. Topaz.”

And was he at all surprised by this? He wasn’t. He knew this was what Betty would want. She had the disposition of a fireman. Where everyone else was running away from a burning blaze, she was running right into it, fully convinced that she could put it out. “They are not to be trifled with, either of them. Very few have been foolish enough to try.”

“You of all people know I’ve done my share of foolish things.”

Sometimes he wished she weren’t so fearless. “Betty.”

“It is not as if we have a choice, now do we?” she replied with a shrug, getting up to take her cup of tea to the sink. 

He stood right after her. “There is a choice. Let me submit my report and let me and my father weather this storm. We will endure--”

She turned and he almost collided into her. “And do nothing? Hope that Ms. Blossom’s accusations against you and your father fall on deaf ears because your mother may make it so?” She cast him a look filled with disdain. “I will meet with Ms. Blossom and all three of us will come to an accord.”

He had no doubt that if he refused to arrange this meeting, Betty would find a way to arrange a meeting herself. Against his better judgment, he promised to make an appointment with Cheryl first thing in the morning.

The corner of her lip turned up and she patted his cheek lightly. “All will be well, Forsythe.”

********************

That was last night. 

Now he was sitting in the autocarriage, watching Betty who was calmly staring out of the window. 

Her golden hair was styled in a twisted braided bun, a different hat topping it. Her dress was a dark green, layered underneath with an ivory blouse with lace trim. Cinching her waist was a brown leather bodice, fitted snugly by belts and straps. The color of her dress brought out her eyes, and the leather made her look distinct--and maybe slightly intimidating. Her collar dipped low in the front and popped high in the back, elongating her slender neck. She was immensely pleasing to the eyes. He had to wonder how deliberate all these fashion details were. 

He did not ask, but his thoughts may have carried. 

She looked at him askance and smiled. “Ms. Blossom likes leather and lace.”

He did not blame Cheryl for that in the least. 

That morning, just as he sat down at breakfast, he learned that it wasn’t necessary to make an appointment with Cheryl Blossom. She had arranged a time for him, already, sending a messenger to tell him that she was free the first hour of the morning shift. “In case you’ve reconsidered my proposal. My door is open for you and your ‘cousin’.” 

His annoyance was forestalled by Betty’s appearance at the breakfast table, looking the way she did, as if she had expected to be summoned by Cheryl. 

FP, who now knew everything that was going on, could only shake his head quietly to himself. Gladys was completely uninformed of all this as of yet, and Jellybean did not care for Guild politics. It was easier this way, for nothing was yet certain. 

When he rose from the breakfast table to leave for work, he asked Betty if she could join him. She seemed unsurprised by this request, and when they boarded the autocarrier, he asked her if she knew about the appointment ahead of time. She simply said, “I didn’t think Ms. Blossom would wait so long, especially if Ms. Topaz told her of me. I was expecting _ something _would occur this morning.” 

Since then they had sat in comfortable silence, lost in their own thoughts. 

It was when they passed Pop’s that Jughead reached out and touched her arm. 

_ We can’t tell her--anybody--that we’re Bound. _

She looked him straight in the eyes, surprised at first, then her face smoothed over into calm as she nodded. 

Moose was at the controls and he would hear everything they talked about. The less people who knew they were Bound, the more control they would have over their lives, on _ how _they could be Bound. 

He’d read the stories--of how the Guild took full advantage of Bound Peace Dealers in history. There hadn’t been enough in the past to have made any considerable progress on how the Guild treated their kind, but it had always seemed rife with regulation, if not outright abuse.

The Bound were a mystery to most and the Guild considered them potentially dangerous, therefore mandated to be monitored. It was, once again, the opposite of what Charles would’ve wanted.

“Be prepared for Cheryl to insist on what she wants,” Jughead said. “Do not let her intimidate you.”

“I am not afraid of anything.”

She said this with such certainty that Jughead was sure she wasn’t lying, only that she was yet to face what she feared most. 

_ We all are afraid of _something. 

The Guild came into view, sitting in the middle of a vast stone courtyard, resplendent with commemorative monuments, carved stone benches, and accents of artfully shaped trees. But the real jewel of the space was the Guild itself, sitting atop an elevation, reached by a stone staircase in marble and superb masonry. The large stone columns in the front gave that impression of power and righteousness, and the building sitting atop it rose high above them, second only to the Menhir several blocks behind them. 

As Jughead held his hand out for Betty to dismount from the autocarriage, he watched her face, drawn in wonder. She looked up, squinting at the building’s highest point, where the statue of an angel and an enormous phoenix was perched. 

“The angel Azrael,” Jughead explained, “The Angel of God. It is believed that he created our kind. He sired children by mortals and made us. The phoenix on his shoulder commands the Daemons.”

“I thought we didn’t have a religion,” Betty mused. 

“It is not a religion,” Jughead said, shutting the autocarriage door behind them. “It is a creation myth. Even the Kin find comfort in long-held dogma, that we were created deliberately. With purpose, not accidents that were allowed to live to spite the mortals and their fragility.”

After she tore her eyes from the statue, they crossed the yard and climbed the steps up to the front doors of the Guild. 

Peace Dealers walked briskly up and down the steps, some tipping their hats at Jughead in greeting, just as their eyes quickly darted to Betty’s face. 

When they reached the large double doors, he noticed Betty eyeing the familiar crest carved into one side of the facade. 

_ “Noli Timere Mortis,” _Betty said, softly. “‘Do not fear death.’ I suppose Death isn’t frightening. It’s dying that looms large, and what hurts the most is being left behind.”

Jughead looked back on loss in his life, at Trevor and Charles. He did not fear death, but it was no friend of his.

They emerged into the main lobby, a cavernous central portal branching out to the two main wings of the building. The high ceilings were decked with aether-powered chandeliers, and the soft, constant ding of bells signaled the authorized entry of employees through the turnstiles lined up on either side of the enormous reception counter. 

All employee Daemons were registered with the Guild, and the sensors at the turnstiles detected each and everyone with or without approval to enter. On any other day, Jughead would walk right through the turnstiles. Today, Betty would need authorization to get through. 

Seated at the center of the counter was the Head of Security, Todd McGinty. His intense gaze followed Jughead’s approach for several seconds before they transferred to Betty. 

“Mr. Jones,” said McGinty as soon as he was within earshot. “You have a guest.”

“I do,” Jughead replied. “This is Ms. Betty Cooper. She is here to see Guardian Blossom.”

McGinty examined Betty briefly before telling her to look at the lense he was pointing at her. Betty had barely turned to frame herself when a small puff of smoke and sparks rose out of the exhaust just behind the counter. 

The datamancer screen mounted on the wall behind McGinty crackled with the blotched, black and white visage of Betty. McGinty tapped the keys hidden behind his counter and Betty dared to lean over to spy it, for which McGinty shot her a menacing look. 

She glared right in return but she did move her elbows back to her sides. 

Jughead bit his lip to keep from grinning. 

Moments later, the ticker tape machine transmitted a message, to which McGinty nodded and handed Betty a crystalline pendant with a thin silver chain. “Ms. Cooper, wear this as you walk through the turnstile. Do not take it off. It gives you temporary admittance into these halls. Deposit it on your way out on either one of the slotted boxes.” He pointed to two identical copper boxes on both ends of the desk. 

“And if I forget?”

“Don’t forget.”

As amusing as it was to watch Betty challenging the rules, they had a meeting to attend. “Ms. Cooper,” he said, to remind her. He stepped back to let her walk ahead. 

She looped the pendant around her neck and leaned over to whisper to Jughead. “No, really. What happens if I forget?”

“The pendant will grow hot and eventually burn you.”

“Ah. Charming. It wouldn’t happen to be Jellybean’s idea, would it?”

Jughead chuckled and shook his head. “If it were up to Jellybean, it would be something ridiculous, like a high pitched whistle that would have all the neighborhood stray dogs hound you, or something as equally bothersome.” 

They crossed the turnstiles and walked past several office doors until they reached the end of the long hallway to the elevators. 

A stream of people followed behind them and Jughead tapped lightly on Betty’s shoulder to signal her towards the staircase. 

“It is only three floors up. Do you mind taking the stairs?”

“Not at all.”

They took the stairs together, and while the stairs were busy with people, it was not as crowded as the queue to the elevators. 

“Is everyone here Peace Dealers?” she asked in breathless awe. 

“No,” Jughead replied. “There are quite a few of us, yes, but the Guild is composed of a considerable number of non-Peace Dealers, like Guardians, Guildsmen, Inkers, Reapers, Inventors, and the administrative staff. The facilities department is just as essential to the running of this organization, so there is that, as well.”

Betty looked up through the staircase’s banisters. “How high do these stairs go?”

“All the way up to the 25th floor.”

“Twenty five,” she breathed.

“The Menhir is nearly twice that.”

She proceeded to head up the stairs. “You were right. There are wonders lurking at every corner.”

He didn’t remember saying that to her.

“In your letter,” she explained. “I read the first one, yesterday.”

“Ah.” He felt a mild pang of anxiety, racking his memories for what embarrassing thing he could’ve possibly said. He was so young then. Romantic, even. He didn’t recall alluding to her confounding declarations on the train platform, but he did remember wishing that he had done what he and Betty always did, which was to find trouble together. Back then, that meant wishing he had taken her with him. 

New York and New Kin brought him a world of wonder, but it was also one of the loneliest days of his life, almost as lonely as the day he realized that his own mother hadn’t thought of bringing him with her. 

“It hadn't sunk in then,” he said. “How I wasn’t going to see you again. Not for a long time, at least.”

They reached the third floor, and once they turned down the hallway, Jughead gestured to one of the bigger double doors as they passed it. “Father’s department.” 

He led the way further down, turning another corner and coming upon another set of large double doors. “Cheryl’s department. Her office is inside. Are you ready, Betts?”

Betty lifted her chin and straightened her collar. “Remember what I used to say, Jughead? You wrote it in your letters. I used to say, ‘Let us find mischief, before it comes looking for us.’ And you would say--”

He smiled, feeling an odd sense of warmth bloom in his chest as he held the door open for her. _ “Let’s.” _

********************

Betty could feel the gaze of Peace Dealers casually glancing her way, but they went back to their work, perhaps accustomed to having unfamiliar faces seeking an audience from Cheryl Blossom. 

It was true what she told Jughead. 

She wasn’t afraid of anything, and it was difficult to believe that Ms. Blossom would be any worse than the amoral toughs and murderous roughs she had faced in the Southside. Still, the fact that Jughead was wary of her meant Ms. Blossom was an entirely different beast. Her weapons would not be made of steel or lead. Ms. Blossom’s was her mind, and her words. 

Jughead led the way, and as they approached Cheryl’s open door, staff members filed out in a hurry. By the time Betty and Jughead arrived at the threshold, Ms. Blossom was standing behind her desk, waiting for them. 

In spite of the severely serious look on Ms. Blossom’s face, Betty was struck by her magnificent beauty, and given that she was a Guardian, she was clearly capable of leading an entire department of men. It was little wonder how she and Ms. Topaz were matched at the heart. 

Jughead introduced them and Ms. Blossom unashamedly looked her up and down, though said nothing about Betty’s appearance. 

Ms. Blossom’s smile did not reach her eyes. “I am pleased to have finally met you, Ms. Cooper. For a while, I was made to believe that I imagined you.” She took a hat from her shelves and placed it on the table as she sat. “I believe this belongs to you.”

Betty recognized the hat. It belonged to her once, and she relinquished ownership of it when a Wraith wind blew it off her head at the factory. As much as she liked it, she was not going to take it back. Admitting it was hers would be admitting she was at the factory, and she decided that she would not allow Ms. Blossom any manner of advantage on that quite yet. “It is a nice hat, but it isn’t mine.”

Ms. Blossom’s shoulders stiffened. “Pardon me?”

“I have never seen it before in my life.” Betty was no habitual liar, but there were many things she was willing to do for Jughead, and this was the least of it. “Whomever owns it must have excellent tastes, however.”

Cheryl pursed her lips so tightly that the petal-soft skin of it puckered. She swiped the hat back and tossed it in the bin. “I wouldn’t call it nearly excellent. Please, sit.”

Jughead pulled the chair for her and Betty settled in it. She took a moment to watch Jughead remove his hat, for there was rarely a sight so delightful to her than his black curls tumbling over his brow. 

Ms. Blossom linked her fingers together over the desk. “Tell me honestly, Ms. Cooper. Was it my maple muffins or my ravishing Antoinette that convinced you to make an appearance?”

Betty saw the impassive look on Jughead’s face and recognized the effort it took for him to say and do nothing in spite of Ms. Blossom’s provocations. “I heard you have need of a Peace Dealer, Ms. Blossom.”

Perhaps it was not lost on Ms. Blossom that she didn’t answer the question, but she was the sort who would not fault another for skipping inane pleasantries. “I have need of a _ particular _ Peace Dealer. An _ extraordinary _Peace Dealer.”

Betty shrugged, lightly. “Well, I am a particular and extraordinary sort, though some would argue that I should not be encouraged by the notion that they are my best qualities.”

“Betty…” Jughead said this with a mildly chastising tone, though the small smile suggested that he thought her funny, anyway. 

Ms. Blossom was not amused. “Do you care to fill this position, deprecating yourself so? Or have you come here to echo Mr. Jones’s foolish sentiments? He exists under the false impression that the decisions we make are not influenced by our needs and wants.”

On any other day, Betty would relish having such an argument with one such as Cheryl Blossom over muffins and coffee, but Ms. Blossom had spat in Jughead’s direction one too many times, and Betty would not stand for such a thing from her own mother, let alone this stranger who fancies herself powerful by default. Any concerns Betty may have for offending mattered little in the grand scheme of this arrangement. 

Ms. Blossom had no respect for wilting flowers, so Betty had no qualms unleashing the thorns to her pink rose. “I must wonder where you have gathered this impression of Mr. Jones and his so-called wide-eyed naivette. That he exists holding steadfast to admirable ideals in spite of having lived a life that the likes of you would wither and fail in--and by fail, I do mean killed--three days in the Southside, is a credit to his character, not a weakness. Or do you think yourself an expert because Ms. Topaz has regaled you with images of her life before you? I promise you, Ms. Blossom, she has edited her true experiences in the telling--for _ your _sake. No matter how durable you believe your sensibilities are, you are neither ready nor able to comprehend what it is like to live in the Southside of Riverdale and to depend on it for your life and livelihood. So please, do not think that I would allow your venomous swipes at his character to continue unchallenged. If you think you can dictate the proceedings, you’ve got another think coming.”

Ms. Blossom’s chest was rising and falling with barely contained fury. Her eyes were alight and her top lip was frenetic with unspoken words. She looked, by all indications, on the verge of explosion. 

Betty tilted her gaze at Jughead, just to see his reaction for he had said nothing through the entire tirade. He sat motionless in his seat, slack jawed, it seemed, at her audacity. 

She could not resist giving him a sultry wink and that appeared to serve as a reminder for him to breathe. 

When Ms. Blossom leaned back on her seat, she appeared to regain full control of her faculties and a strained smile spread across her face. “You have a mouth on you, I will give you that. Know this, Ms. Cooper. I have ruined people for words far less disrespectful than yours, but I suppose that if the desired qualifications of my ideal candidate are to be met, I ought to expect that the likes of you wouldn’t be afraid to speak up. Now I will ask you again, do you wish to fill this position?”

Betty nodded. “If the terms are agreeable, yes.”

Ms. Blossom seemed even more astounded by this than Betty’s earlier tirade. “Pardon me? Terms?”

Betty frowned, deeply. “Did you expect me to work without pay, Ms. Blossom? I am sure you understand that my employment here is contingent on at least two things. The first being your acceptance of my application and the second, the fairness of my salary.”

Jughead raised a pointed finger. “_ Fair _, by the way, is generous. The quality of Ms. Cooper’s services deserve a hefty pay. It must be fair and more.”

Ms. Blossom dealt him a withering glare. “Thank you, Mr. Jones, for your unsolicited, and highly irrelevant opinion.” She turned to Betty before Jughead could respond. “Assuming I do not poison you before the end of the day for your impertinence, what qualifies you, Ms. Cooper? Have you worked for any branch of the Guild before? Where did you graduate? How am I to ask the Guild for the coffers to pay you ‘fair and more’?”

Ms. Blossom had her there. Her isolation from her kind removed her of the more traditional credentials that would make her look well on paper. “There is nothing I can show you,” Betty admitted. 

A triumphant smirk spread across Ms. Blossom’s face. 

Betty shrugged. “I am a freelancer, with a considerable amount of experience in investigating a wide range of cases. I am classically trained, with the best mentor any academy can buy. I started training at 10 and Peace Dealing on my own since I was 14. I am going on 20, and Mr. Jones can attest to my abilities. That said, you and the Guild will see for yourselves what I can do at trials--for don’t all Peace Dealer applicants to the Guild go through them? We can negotiate my pay, then. If I turn in an ordinary performance, I will gladly accept fair pay.”

Cheryl scoffed but nodded. “Very well. Impress me.” She slid a folder in Betty’s direction. “Complete this application form now and I will process your papers swiftly in time for the next round of trials.”

Jughead’s eyebrows crimped. “The next round starts tomorrow. Surely you don’t--”

“Did I stutter, Mr. Jones?”

His lips pursed to a straight line and Betty awaited his response with a raise of her eyebrow. After a pause, he said, “If Ms. Cooper has no objections, then neither do I.”

Jughead had explained some of the trials to her, somewhat vaguely. It was a standard practice at the Guild--a means to ensure that all incoming applicants have the skill and physical strength to endure and survive the work. The Peace Dealer trials were particularly interesting to many, considered to be a spectator sport. There was most certainly gambling. The other administrative trials were not as riveting, but trials were standard in the Guild. The organization valued its reputation, and damaging mistakes on the field could be avoided when recruits were put through their paces, their mettle tested, before the Guild deemed them worthy of the crest.

“When do the next trials occur?” Betty asked. 

“In six months,” Ms. Blossom replied. “Recruits come from all over the country, sometimes from across the globe, to do their trials here. Which accounts for the frequency. If we only held trials for our New York recruits, we can go without Peace Dealer trials for a year or two.”

Betty didn’t think she could wait another six months, herself. It was not ideal, but she was confident in what she could do. Jughead said there was nothing particularly extraordinary about it, and it wasn’t a competition. They weren’t paring candidates down deliberately. The only person who could truly fail you was yourself. 

If there was anything Betty was good at, it was being stubborn and relentless. 

She opened the folder and began filling up the application form. “Tomorrow it is, then.”

Ms. Blossom finally seemed pleased, and when she turned her expectant gaze at Jughead, he sighed. “I will put in my transfer when Ms. Cooper is admitted into the Guild. Is that satisfactory?”

She nodded. “That will do. It makes sense that you would wish to be transferred where Ms. Cooper gets assigned. It seems less suspicious. Have you submitted your report of the Factory Reaping, Mr. Jones?”

“It will be submitted today.”

“Excellent. It will up the stakes for all of us, and in the end, we all get what we want.”

Betty had the distinct impression that Ms. Blossom believed she had the upper hand. 

The application was completed and Betty slid the folder back. Ms. Blossom caught it with the flat of her hand. 

“Rest thyself well for tomorrow, Ms. Cooper, for you carry the weight of your entire gender, whether you like it or not, and your failure will be the failure of us all. Believe me when I say I know.” She cast Betty a smile that she actually thought was tinged with sympathy. “Good luck.”

With their business concluded, Betty stood, and Jughead rose after her, setting his hat on his head as they left. 

*********************

They waited at the curb, Jughead blowing smoke through his lips as he let the events of the last hour settle in him like he would waking from a chaotic dream. 

The steady bustle of Kin, Daemons, and the various means of mobility served only to calm him, like peripheral noise. 

“Are you displeased with me?” Betty asked, her voice breaking through her thoughts. 

He wondered where she got the notion. It was difficult to imagine ever being displeased with her. Sometimes he believed that with Betty, he had an unlimited supply of affection, but then he also wondered if that was a good or bad thing. He couldn’t think of anything he wouldn’t do for her, so to him, displeasure was foreign notion in their relationship.

“What made you ask that?” He was curious. 

“You have not looked at me since we left Ms. Blossom’s office.”

Hasn’t he? He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t realized, until now, that he was doing it deliberately.

It was difficult to explain, for he hadn’t given it thought, himself. He had accompanied Betty to this meeting ready to protect her from the searing flames of Cheryl Blossom, only to watch Betty charge headlong into Cheryl’s fire. Even Cheryl was flabbergasted at her nerve. 

Jughead always knew Betty to be fearless, had seen her relentlessly pursue fleeing criminals, had watched her unflinchingly play a prostitute, had witnessed her walk into a den of thugs with nothing but her wits to protect her, and had observed her outsmart a cunning murderer. He thought he knew what Betty could do. 

This was the first time he’d heard her defend him against this proverbial Guild dragon, and it was overwhelmingly evocative, but he was a little afraid of what it meant. He needed clarity. A space to think where the vision of her winking did not throw him into turmoil. He could begin to hear his thoughts when looking at her ceased to be so distracting.

“I am most decidedly _ not _displeased,” he replied, casting her a half smile just to reassure her. “I am merely lost in my own thoughts. I worry that tomorrow is too soon. I worry that I forced you into a circumstance where Cheryl might eventually overwhelm you.”

His confessions did not appear to surprise her. “All that may be true, but I consider this an opportunity, one that never would have been so convenient were it not for Ms. Blossom’s agenda. Peace Dealing is what I do. It is who I am. It is quite laughable, really, how Ms. Blossom is preparing to out-maneuver me in negotiations for my salary, when I would gladly do all this--” she waved her hand in the direction of the Guild, “--without pay.”

He chuckled as he took a puff of his cigarette. She should get paid for doing this, and heftily, but there were other options. “Charles left you his fortune. You need not work for pay.”

She smiled. “A fortune that is now yours to dispose.”

His gut twisted. “It is not my money, Betty. It is yours, and your mother’s, I am merely--”

The gentle press of her hand upon his arm scattered his train of thought.

“He was your brother, Jughead. At least half of it is rightfully yours by blood. The rest of it is for the upkeep of Elm and my mother. I should like to earn my keep--with money I don’t need your signature for.”

It felt a little like being rebuffed, and he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps his time in the Southside, among the Locked had instilled in him some sense of patriarchal duty. He covered her hand with his. “I will always take care of you.”

He never realized how much he meant those words until he said them out loud, and it must have carried in his tone because her green eyes flickered with mild astonishment. 

The autocarriage pulled up the curb with Moose at the driver’s seat. 

“I know.” She pulled away from him to alight her transport. 

Moose had appeared, opening the door for her as he cast Jughead an appraising glance. “Everyone’s alive. And well. Good! Thought for sure someone would at least be bleeding by this time.”

“Ms. Blossom was in an affable mood,” Betty explained, throwing Jughead another wink. 

_ I wish she would stop doing that. _

But even thinking it, he knew he didn’t mean it. He tipped his hat at Betty. “Keep, you, out of trouble while I am away, Betty.”

“I will be sure to wait for you to come home before I seek it, Forsythe.”

With that she settled into the carriage and Moose secured the door. 

With only a raised eyebrow thrown in Jughead’s direction, Moose rounded the carriage and mounted the driver’s seat. Jughead imagined all manner of verbal expressions he was so used to hearing from his sometimes-partner, delivered without a word.

***************

They were in the garden of old Elm, where so often he sat upon the grass, his back to a stone bench. He would prattle on with nonsense, his cares forgotten in this fantasy place. He was surrounded by greens and flowers, either bathed in sunlight or kissed by moonlight, like a painting of the best version of his life. 

He was hardly ever alone in the garden. More often than naught, Betty sat perched on the same bench, laughing at the things he said. She was so young. So pure. Innocent of the things he already knew. 

She was his brother’s sister and she was to be protected at all costs. 

His laughter was echoed by hers, but as he looked over his shoulder, he saw, not a child, but the visage of Betty as she was, now. Nineteen going on twenty, with silken braids of hair, lips like petals, and eyes like polished jade. She smiled and her hand came up to touch his face. 

He could smell lilacs wafting from her wrist, and he turned his nose, touching the tip of it upon that delicate pulse point. 

Her fingers combed through his hair and he closed his eyes, letting the lightning from her fingertips trickle gently down his body. 

In the back of his mind, the voice of his brother chided him for letting his impulses overcome him. He’d been told, most of his life in Elm, that her safety was paramount. That nothing was to touch her. 

Betty, more than anything in Charles’s life, was her brother’s priority. If there was anything that Charles lived for at all, it was his sister. That Charles left his estate to Jughead meant the responsibility of Betty’s welfare came with it. 

Jughead knew all this. Internalized it, but Betty long ago knew how to blast through his borders. Knew that if she asked him just right, he always gave in. He always helped her find that wall of trouble and scale it.

“I am no good for you,” he whispered. The side of her thigh nudged his shoulder and the crook of her arm cradled the back of his head. Her fingers flicked the hair on his forehead with slow strokes. Even as he said those words, he craned his neck to look up at her face, reveling in its sculpted shape. “I am an addict. I get my partners killed.”

Her soft laughter felt like a feather down his spine. “You are trouble.”

“I am,” he breathed. 

“Trouble is mischief.” Her other hand came up to cup his jaw. 

“Betty.”

She shushed him. “And you know what I say about mischief. Let us find mischief, before it comes looking for us.”

He felt powerless, closing his eyes as he tilted his chin. He felt the breath from her body ghost his lips as she continued, “and you would say--”

_ “Let’s.” _

The crashing of their lips ended him. 

***************

It was all a dream, certainly. 

Jughead told himself this as he woke up, gasping with desire, regret, and relief, all at once.

The light of the new day was just peeking over the horizon, and pushing himself out of bed, he went to his window, threw it open, and lit a cigarette. He did not make it a habit to smoke first thing in the morning, but this was an occasion for it. 

He blew out the smoke and pressed the heels of his palms upon the windowsill. 

After he let the sounds of the morning wash over him, he took stock of reality. 

Today was trial day. Today Betty Cooper was coming out to the Kin. 

He did not want her to fail, did not think she would, but he was afraid for what was to come. 

Last night, after dinner, he sat in her room, and by the light of the fire, he told her what to expect. 

The trials were basically the same each year, where recruits were tested in agility, skills, endurance, and mental fitness. The ways and means did not vary too much between seasons, and the purpose wasn’t to discourage from Peace Dealing. It was to ensure that those who wore the crest of the Guild would do it credit. 

It was dogma that the Kin were created specifically to be Peace Dealers. It was the very purpose of their existence. That enough of them came to being to form societies, where Kin could exist as anything other than Peace Dealers--musicians, restaurateurs, scientists, artists, bankers, lawyers, builders, physicians--was an evolution beyond the imaginings of the first of their kind. But none of that changed the fact that all Kin can be Peace Dealers if they have to be. It was, to them, like swimming or running. They could all do it--just that some were better at it than others. Some wished to do it all their lives, and those who did aimed to excel in it. It was they who exemplified the reputation of the Guild. 

The Guild was the very foundation of their kind. If the Guild could be held up to its meticulous standards, then the Kin themselves could hold themselves above the flaws and foibles of the Locked. 

“You will be tried the same way as everyone else,” Jughead had explained, hoping she would read the full meaning of what he just said. 

Of course she did, “What you mean is that there is no trial specifically for women applicants. I will be tried the same way as every man in the Guild.” 

He nodded, and he continued on to explain as much as he could remember from the many trials he’d seen in the past. 

“The academy prepared me for the trials,” Jughead said. “Stonewall has a 90% success rate for their graduates applying for admittance into the New Kin Guild. If they do their trials elsewhere, the rates are in the 95%”

She seemed amused by these numbers. “How do the 10% fail?”

“It varies. Intense injury, sometimes. Fatal accidents, rarely, but most of those 10% fail at the final trial--The Infernal Sphere.”

Or what the Peace Dealers have half-jokingly called The Fear Sphere. Not that its real name didn’t lend itself to the contraption. Every Peace Dealer who walked into it came out different on the other side. 

Betty claimed she wasn’t afraid of anything, and Jughead still believed that everybody had something they were afraid of. 

But that wasn’t until much later, and that was provided she got through the other trials, first. 

Statistically, half of the recruits made it into the Guild. Stonewall graduates rarely failed to make it. 

Betty had many factors against her, but he was confident that Betty would be prepared. Excel, even. He remembered how Charles instructed him, how Charles trained him. If Betty received the same treatment all these years--and the way she taught herself new techniques based on Charles’s journals, she could complete the trials with one hand tied behind her back. 

He couldn’t forget the night she took off after Tallboy in the docks--her agility was almost shocking, her movements precise, and there was no hesitation to hamper her. And in spite of the difference of their philosophies at the factory, her sigil-crafting was solid. She stayed calm in the face of a Shadow Wraith attack and fought off Christina with an invocation he never knew was possible. 

When he asked her how she had repelled the Shadow Wraith with the touch of her hand, she opened her palm to him. There, at the base of her palm, was a barely discernible sigil, etched in white beneath her skin. It was a tattoo. A permanent sigil. 

He cradled her hand in his and ran his thumb over it. He could barely feel the bumps of the inscriptions. “How did you--did you get an Inker? Was it Sabrina?”

Betty shook her head. “No need for an Inker. A Locked tattoo artist, skilled for sure, discreet, always. I showed him the design and he tattooed it. I told him no deviations at all. He used white ink, but tattoos touch your blood, so this one is made of mine. I can invoke it indefinitely.”

“Do you have more of these anywhere else?” he had asked, breathless at the cleverness of it. 

She laughed. “Are you asking to see them? Such familiarity is often preceded by a proposal, at very least.”

He had blushed to his roots, and she laughed even more, admitting that there were no others, for there really weren’t any other sigils she’d found that would work the same way.

He’d found, then that he hadn’t let her hands go, and that the feel of them in his seemed so natural and untarnished by the norms that dictated etiquette and propriety. 

They were comfortable with one another, close in the most platonic ways, but they were children then, and he found on the day he turned eighteen that she loved him--_ un-platonically. _What did it mean then that they were holding hands now by the light of the fire, unbothered by the rules of society that men and women shouldn’t touch unless they were promised to one another?

He had set her hands back unto her lap and shortly after, he bid her goodnight. 

That he could not get his mind off hidden fictional tattoos was the quandary he left for his dreams. 

His early morning thoughts portend of interesting things to come. 

******************

Betty was not particularly consumed by thoughts of the trial. 

She was slightly concerned, for sure. What person with any sense wouldn’t be concerned with the possibility of humiliation? But she’d kept up with the drills Charles demanded of her, had stayed sharp through her daily sojourns into the Southside, and given the information Jughead had shared with her about trials, she felt ready. 

She was, in truth, more concerned about being amongst other people--particularly other men, whom she could only surmise were born and bred academy boys, and those, she knew, were the worst kind. 

To be fair, Jughead was officially an academy boy, and she was hopelessly gone on him. Moose was also quite nice, but they were more likely the exception. They were roommates at Stonewall, to boot. It would be most unreasonable to expect that the dozen or so candidates today would be just as wonderful as he is. Bearable, maybe. 

“Would I have to work with any of them?” she asked Jughead as they rode the autocarriage to the Guild. “With the other candidates?”

Jughead nodded. “Yes, of course. The Guild partner their Peace Dealers. You would have to show that you can work with others.”

Betty sighed and spared him a withering glance before turning her gaze back to the window. “So I would have to get along with some of these academy chaps.”

His soft chuckle cut through her thoughts. “Moose and I came from academy. You seem to like us just fine.”

“Am I to expect that the lot of them are like you and Moose?” she challenged. 

“Well, maybe not _ all _of them,” Jughead conceded. “But there’s always that handful of Stonewall prep boys who earned their way through talent and not money. And then there is the privileged lot. Interestingly enough, the main rivalries in these trials always happen between candidates in the same school. It’s seldom the Stonewall prep candidates band together to defeat the St. Castael Preparatory. There is enough ego, I suppose, to go around in their respective schools.”

Betty said nothing, but she was still stewing on the notion that she had to play nicely with any of them. 

As the autocarriage moved towards the Guild, the driver panel slid open and Moose spoke through it. “Ms. Blossom’s waiting at the curb.”

Jughead sighed. “Of course she is.”

Moose pulled up slowly and Jughead stepped out first, holding the door open for Betty. 

Ms. Blossom did not hesitate to approach. 

“Well, don’t look so glum, Jones,” Ms. Blossom said in a haughty tone. “Did you not expect me to be here? I look after my interests.”

“Good morning, Ms. Blossom,” said Betty, pleasantly, to distract from Jughead’s mood. “Will you be escorting me into the Guild?”

“Yes. If you are to be _ my _recruit, I want people to know it.” She looked Betty up and down, this time deliberately. Betty had chosen a more serviceable dress. Something utilitarian--similar to what she wore meeting with Ms. Blossom, but even less lace. Less layers, and less skin. 

If she had to get on a horse and ride fiercely into the sunset, she would be ready to do so at the drop of a hat. 

Ms. Blossom reached for her throat with red painted nails and Betty flinched, but Ms. Blossom was completely unbothered, quickly undoing the ties meant to hold Betty’s blouse close to her neck. 

“Hold still!” Ms. Blossom hissed, yanking the laces. “Your collar is too high!” 

“And?” Betty demanded, covering her throat with her hand. “This is how it is meant to be worn!”

“Says who_ , ma cher _?” Ms. Blossom interrupted, her tone bereft of any love. “Your grandmother? If you are to be a woman among men, we will take advantage of what weapons we have at our disposal. Clearly there is much to be admired from the waist, up.”

Jughead looked livid. _ “Cheryl Blossom. _I don’t think--”

“That’s right, you don’t. Be quiet. The women are speaking.” She continued to unravel Betty’s collar. “You are my recruit, Ms. Cooper, and as such, you would be wise to listen to my advice. Your precious treasure over here might fancy himself your protector, but he knows not how women maneuver in the men-infested waters of this Guild.” Ms. Blossom untied her laces just enough for Betty to pull back again. 

Her face felt like lava, struggling for words. “I will _ not _ parade my bits to ease my way _ .” _From the corner of her vision, she could see Jughead running a mortified hand down his face. 

Ms. Blossom sneered, but she seemed to relent. “You do not have to do it if you do not want to. I am merely suggesting that the choices that I present to you will differ from that of Jones’s. He knows little about being a woman. If he is as gallant as he wants us to believe, he should acknowledge that. Shall I go on?” 

Betty realized she was breathing in outraged _ something, _but as she let Ms. Blossom’s words sink in, she recognized the wisdom lurking in the barbed words.

Moose appeared to be leaning his elbows over the roof of the autocarriage, watching the proceedings calmly, and Jughead said nothing to counter Ms. Blossom’s argument. 

Ms. Blossom was right. As much as she would trust these men with her life, they did not know womanhood, and they did not perceive gender politics the way she and Ms. Blossom did. 

Betty let out a calming breath and relaxed her stance.

Ms. Blossom stepped closer, and when she arched her eyebrow questioningly and Betty nodded, Ms. Blossom took out a chain. Betty recognized it as the crystal Mr. McGinty gave to approved guests at the reception. 

Carefully, Ms. Blossom looped it over Betty’s head and around her neck, speaking as she did so. “You will quickly learn, if you haven’t already, that I care for women infinitely more than I do for men. I do not expect you to whore yourself--unless _ that _is your desire.” The corner of her lip lifted slightly. “However, know that when you give a little, whatever that may be, that is when most show their weakness. Look for weaknesses Ms. Cooper. You might not need to use them, but it is always good to have something in your back pocket.”

Betty knew this. Understood this. She had played a whore to get exactly what she needed from a target. The Guild might be a more genteel setting, but many of the rules are the same. She did not need Ms. Blossom to know all this, but what did matter was that Ms. Blossom understood it. While Ms. Blossom was not likely to be her bosom friend, she might well be an ally, although a rather uneasy one. 

“Noted, Ms. Blossom. You can be sure that your advice is something I value and should I have questions, I will bring them to you.”

Ms. Blossom looked pleased and she looped her arm around Betty’s to move them forward. “My Antoinette was pleased when she heard you had turned in your application. I had heard that Ms. Lodge is arranging a finely appointed lunch for us--just us girls, where we can get to know one another most intimately.”

Betty did not have a lot of friends to begin with, and to suddenly have an entire squad of impressive women to surround herself with was unusual, at least. She felt open to the possibilities. 

She glanced briefly at Jughead, who followed a gentlemanly distance behind. He seemed unsurprised, and while Ms. Blossom’s name invoked conflict when spoken of, he had never done so with contempt, only caution. 

Ms. Blossom caught her looking at Jughead but said nothing of it as they blew past the reception desks and turnstiles. Instead, she explained to him where they were going. “I am bringing her to human resources, Jones. Do you intend to shadow us the entire way?”

“Why not?” Jughead replied without hesitation. 

Ms. Blossom rolled her eyes, casting Betty a knowing grin. “Afraid I’ll whisk this girl away from you, too?”

“Cheryl.” His tone was one of warning and Betty made distinct note of this. 

Ms. Blossom laughed. “Worry not, this one _ claims _you. Antoinette was never so attached.”

Betty bit her lip, putting the pieces of Ms. Blossom’s words together in her head. The slightest whiff of jealousy stabbed at Betty’s gut, and then it waned as she turned her focus to this day, where she faced extraordinary circumstances of probable employment. 

They took a lift to the topmost floor, and when they stepped off, Betty noted the richer decor and the more subdued bustle of work. The hallways were long and lined with ornate heavy doors, spaced wide apart. 

At the end of the hallway, Betty could see daylight streaming, and as they turned the corner, she saw that it was an open hallway, with doors on one side and a wrap-around balcony on the other, overlooking a central open yard on the ground floor with tables and chairs for large gatherings of people. The ivy scaling the exterior walls were well maintained, as were the flowers that were artfully placed as accents throughout. 

Betty wanted to peer over the balustrade to observe the yard and all its details, but Ms. Blossom moved her along. 

“This is where leadership holds office,” Ms. Blossom explained. “The Guildsmen and Guildswomen run this entire operation from this floor. Their staff are assigned desks here, as well. We are here so that I can personally introduce you to Guildswoman Burble. She leads the human resources department. Every applicant of this fine establishment goes through her.”

“And are all applicants introduced to her this way?” Betty asked. 

Ms. Blossom laughed. “Of course not. I secured this meeting because I know what I’m doing.” She turned to Jughead. “You can wait here, or you can leave, whichever you prefer.”

Jughead threw her a sardonic grin but appeared to settle himself against the railing, watching a pair of warblers preen on a nearby bird perch. He was not leaving and Betty found comfort in his firm, but wordless declaration. 

Ms. Blossom huffed. “Suit yourself.” 

As they walked through the large doors, Ms. Blossom told her, “This shouldn’t take long. After this, I will have Mr. Jones escort you to trial orientation--we may as well make use of him.”

“You don’t like Jughead much,” Betty muttered. 

Ms. Blossom blew a scoff. “I do not like most men, and to Jones’s credit, he does not take that personally. I don’t treat him as badly as the others, however, and I think he knows that. My Antoinette speaks well of him and his father often enough, and it seems that the women I hold most dear seem to like him--Antoinette, Veronica--he considers those same women his friends, as well, so he and I are thrown into an uneasy association. I admit that he is at least bearable. And now here you are, _ my _recruit, and you look at him with such a lovelorn gaze.”

Betty felt her face flaming. “Oh, but you are mis--” 

“No, no,” Cheryl interrupted. “I will not be lied to. And we will talk about your pining some other time. But the point being that now that we are about to embark on this journey, I find that yet again, Jones is in the background. It seems he and I tend to like the same people, our differences notwithstanding.”

Betty thought that with friends like Ms. Blossom, Jughead had no need of enemies, but she kept that to herself. 

There was a receptionist situated beside the door marked _ Guildswoman Burble. _

She was a pleasant looking young lady who was busily tapping away at a datamancer. She hardly looked up from her work as she said, “The Guildswoman will see you and your guest, Ms. Blossom.”

Ms. Blossom’s face transformed to one of complete charm. “Thank you, Ms. Klump.” She knocked twice on the door, waited for the soft response of, “Come in,” before she pushed the door open. 

Ms. Blossom walked in first and Betty followed. 

Betty’s eyes beheld an elegantly decorated office, with shelves half lined with books, and half-lined with curiosities and miniature plants. 

The gigantic desk at the head of the room was piled with documentation and folders. It was orderly, but the folders did blanket most of the desk space. In the midst of it was Guildswoman Burble, scribbling in a notebook absolutely filled with her neat handwriting. 

Guildswoman Burble wore a spectacularly high hat and a properly professional pants suit, not that much different from Gladys’s, except that her fabrics were lighter in color, barely a hint of black. The guildswoman preferred more earthen tones--greeens, browns, and beiges, even if it was frill and lace free. 

Her smile, when she looked up from her work, was restrained, but her face was kind. Her large brown eyes and prominent lips were framed by a delicately structured face. Even without the hat, Betty could tell she was tall, and her shoulders, though wrapped in a coat, told Betty she was a slender lady.

“Ms. Blossom,” Guildswoman Burble said. “Prompt as always. And is this your exciting new recruit?”

The charm had not waned from Ms. Blossom’s face. “Guildswoman, I am pleased to introduce you to Ms. Betty Cooper. Ms. Cooper, this is the honorable Guildsman Burble, head of Human Resources. She is responsible for the hiring of every single employee in this organization. Absolutely nothing fazes her and she has an uncanny instinct for what people need and want. It is almost as if she could look into your very soul.”

Betty curtsied. “How do you do, Guildswoman Burble?”

Guildswoman Burble rose from her seat, casually rounding it to stand with them. Betty was right. She was tall, and svelt, and she seemed amused by Ms. Blossom’s introduction. 

She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded Betty. “Ms. Blossom greatly exaggerates my talents. I have neither the power nor the inclination to look into anyone’s soul, lest I find things that I would rather unsee. But I do know people. I have learned them from years of honed instinct. It also helps that I do background confirmations on each eligible applicant, and when a supervisor desires to see an employee terminated, they come to me. I am as necessary in filling these halls with the people we need as I am necessary in the removal of them. I am the personification of bureaucracy.”

“I hardly think you merit such a description, Guildswoman,” said Ms. Blossom. “Many of us turn to you for your wisdom.”

Guildswoman Burble shook a finger at her. “Many turn to me for what I know. Knowledge and wisdom are not the same.” She picked up a file and opened it, looking through the folios. “These are your papers, Ms. Cooper. It is the information you have provided me. It is information I will use to peek into your past. Your background. I will learn more about you, and when your trials are over, successful or ill-met, I may very well know you better than you know yourself.”

Betty listened intently, wondering just how deeply Guildwoman Burble would look. She also wondered if the Guildswoman oversaw _ all _manner of terminations. “It will be interesting to hear about what you might find out.”

Guildswoman Burble quirked a smile. “Perhaps I will tell you. I’m sure Ms. Blossom has told you that we haven’t employed a woman Peace Dealer in this institution for decades. The last one was a little over twenty years ago--gave us three good years, did us credit, then she left Peace Dealing to marry and take care of her family. As the saying goes, ‘More good women have been lost to marriage than to war, famine, disease, and disaster.’”

“Guildswoman, please,” Ms. Blossom said. “With all due respect, that is not how your story should be told.” 

Guildswoman Burble chuckled and Betty gaped in surprise. 

“It was you, Guildswoman Burble?”

The Guildswoman set her file down on the table. “It was a long time ago, but yes. It was me. As you can see, Ms. Cooper, I did not leave the organization. I was the first woman _ ever _to Peace Deal for this institution. I imagine that before organized Peace Dealing, women were more engaged, but these days the likes of us come few and far between. I recognize how you were not given the same opportunities as your male peers, and yet you persist. For that I cannot take your lack of academy training against you. I will be willing to fight for you, Ms.Cooper, but you must be better than everyone else, otherwise I will have to fight harder to admit you.” 

Betty felt anxiety grip her stomach for an instant, and then it waned, replaced by a stubborn resolve. This woman must have fought harder than anyone else to earn her place as a Peace Dealer all those years ago. She imagined that the Guildsman who used to sit in this office might have been less disposed to admit her. Betty felt she had to honor that accomplishment by doing the best she could. 

“I swear to you, Guildswoman Burble. I will earn my place spectacularly. I will leave no doubt.” 

The Guildswoman gave her a tightlipped smile and went back to her place behind the desk. “I am sure you won’t. Welcome to Guildsman Hall, Ms. Cooper. I know not the circumstances that will warrant our next meeting, but whatever it is, remember that I always hope for the best.”

It was clear to Betty that Guildsman Burble was downplaying her power. If there was anything Betty learned about the Guildswoman at all, it’s that she must have everyone by the seat of their trousers. What manner of information could be tucked safely away in these shelves? Her notebook, perhaps? Or maybe elsewhere, where the proof could not be found? “That strikes me as very optimistic, Guildswoman Burble.”

“I am eternally optimistic.” She took up her pen with a flourish and began to write in her notebook again. “You both have a good day.”

Ms. Blossom curtsied and led Betty out of the office. When the Guildswoman’s doors closed behind them, Ms. Blossom leaned her lips close to Betty’s ear and said, “I think you made a good impression.”

Betty frowned. “I barely said two words. How can you tell?”

“It is just a feeling.” They emerged back into the hallway and Jughead stood straighter when he saw them. 

“How fared you, Betty?” he asked. 

“Adequately,” Betty replied. 

“The impression appeared favorable on all accounts,” Ms. Blossom added. 

Betty could not quite agree with Ms. Blossom. “I do not share Ms. Blossom’s certainty, but I did not make a fool of myself, at least.”

Ms. Blossom sneered. “There will be plenty of opportunity at the trials.”

Jughead’s glare struck sharp and Ms. Blossom had the decency to withdraw her sarcasm. 

“Of course,” she added quickly, turning and clasping Betty by the shoulders. “I don’t wish for Ms. Cooper to humiliate herself in any way. Her triumph is mine’s, as well. _ Now,--” _she turned her attention back to Jughead. “I have another meeting to attend on this floor. Won’t you be a good Peace Dealer and escort her to orientation?”

Jughead nodded, and with that, Ms. Blossom turned down another hallway, disappearing into the lengthy shadows. 

“Are you ready for orientation?” Jughead asked. 

She nodded. “I am.”

*************************

As Betty stepped through the doors, the bustle of the room continued. She was but a face amongst the crowd and no one yet knew that she would number among the applicants. 

The classroom was an amphitheatre, seating attendants in ascending rows. Desks were provided for the audience, and the instructor’s desk was the largest in the room. 

The instructor was a grave looking, stiff backed man, bald, and stately. He saw her approaching and his gaze was quick to note Jughead walking behind her. He wore somber colors and there wasn’t a crimp on his suit. His shoes were polished to a near mirror sheen. His cravat was folded, pinned, puffed, and tied so perfectly that Betty knew immediately that this was a fastidious man. 

“Guardian Weatherbee,” said Jughead with a tip of his hat, just as they were approaching the desk. 

“Young Jones,” Guardian Weatherbee said. “Are you sitting in orientation today? And have you brought a guest.”

Jughead cast her an apologetic look. “Guardian Weatherbee, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, I do not wish to relive those golden days of Guild Trials, but allow me to introduce Ms. Betty Cooper. She has applied for an open Peace Dealer position and will be among your candidates. I am sure you saw her name on your list.”

Betty gave Guardian Weatherbee a proper curtsy even as the gentleman stared at her in complete astonishment. “I may have been listed as Elizabeth Cooper, Guardian Weatherbee.”

Guardian Weatherbee took up a folio and examined it carefully. “I thought Ms. Blossom was mocking me when she told me last night…”

Betty frowned and she felt Jughead’s delicate fingers press upon her arm as he responded. 

“I assure you, Guardian Weatherbee, Ms. Blossom was quite serious, and here stands Ms. Cooper, ready to attend.”

After a moment’s silence, he seemed to regain his faculties and set the folio aside. “I am pleased to meet you, Ms. Cooper. Clearly you’ve been recruited by Ms. Blossom.”

Betty nodded. “That is correct, sir.”

He looked briefly around the room before directing his gaze at her again. “Expect no kid gloves. No special treatment.”

Betty tried to contain her feelings of irritation at the implication of his words. “Why should I expect such a thing to begin with?”

If it were possible for Guardian Weatherbee’s face to grow more stern, they bore witness to the phenomenon right now. He pointed to the row of seating. “Find your place. We are set to begin in ten minutes.”

_ Find your place! _

Betty had never had much of a temper, but at the moment she was fuming. It was fortunate that Jughead knew her threshold better than she did, because he delicately gestured for her to speak to him aside. 

She turned on her heel and marched to the side of the room. “That was not subtle,” she whispered, fiercely. 

“It was not,” Jughead conceded. “But he can make your trials unpleasant, and a fight with him gains you no reward. Direct those energies elsewhere.”

Betty nodded, knowing him to be right. “I’ll bear it. I shall focus on completing these trials successfully. Will you be watching them? The trials.”

He smiled, apologetically. “It depends on my availability. If I am in the premises, I will.” He checked his pocket watch, quickly. “I have a few more minutes, but you should join the others, perhaps make friends with those most likely to succeed, as Ms. Blossom might suggest.”

Betty grinned. “Make friends? Had I known this would be so hard...”

He tilted an amused smile. “Good luck, Betty.” He motioned, perhaps, to take her hands, but he remembered himself, perhaps, and pulled away before he could get any closer. 

Betty gathered her skirts and began to climb the rows. It was only in that moment that she could hear the buzz of discussion petter to silence. It annoyed her that her very existence in this room gave them such pause. They really should not be so shocked. 

She saw that some paper and pencils were provided in a small table towards the top rows. She took one of each and slid into a seat, awaiting the start of the proceedings. 

The quiet hush soon rose to a low buzz once more, and Betty thought everyone had gotten over their silly gender hangups, but the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand at attention, feeling eyes staring from behind. 

She looked over her shoulder and saw three lads watching her unashamedly from the back rows. She did not avert her gaze as she gave each one a quick assessment, and while various myriad details caught her attention, she noticed most distinctly that they all wore the same pin on the lapels of their coats. She recognized it immediately as the Stonewall crest, as she’d seen it once or twice around the Jones home, stamped on book spines, Jughead’s cufflinks, and perhaps on a writing pad, embossed like a commemorative graduation gift. 

She looked quickly at the slim, compact book the dark skinned one held and sure enough, it had on it the Stonewall Academy crest, with its no-nonsense motto of _ Vivere Viventem _. Live with the Living.

Lips pressed together, her downturned smile of amusement, coupled with her soft scoff, did not go unnoticed. 

“Hey, miss,” said the dark haired one. His almond-shaped eyes and square jaw made him a pleasure to look at. 

She turned, waiting for him to speak. 

“Are you really here for the trials?” he asked.

She squinted at him pointedly. “No. I just like randomly sitting in classrooms full of strangers.”

He appeared to give what she said some thought, but his two companions were nudging each other’s shoulders, amused by her mild rebuke. 

“Don’t let Reggie scare you. He may look like an oaf, but he’s as gentle as a lamb.” This was spoken by the dark skinned gentleman with the close cropped hair. He had a honeyed tone, but his dark eyes were mischievous. “Isn’t that right, Archie?”

The red-headed one cocked a smirk. His hair was almost orange in its redness, and his smiling face was spackled lightly with perfectly placed freckles. His handsome, chiseled face was softened by a guileless charm. “Play later, Munroe. We don’t fraternize with the competition, but she’ll be out by the end of the day so you can flirt with her then.” His gaze lingered over her, which only made her shoot back a glare before she turned her back on them. 

She did not want them to see her face reddening with rage. Instead, she focused on what Ms. Blossom reminded her of earlier. Spot their weaknesses. She might have found one, already. And truly, if that was all they could manage in the way of intimidation, these boys didn’t know what was coming to them. 

All three boys, she noted, seemed well dressed. Their clothing was made of a good material--possibly expensive. Reggie’s looked somewhat overworn, however. It could be his only suit. 

As she mused over these details, she heard a commotion from behind her and she saw “Archie” standing over a rickety young man who stood his ground even as his papers flitted in a mess all around him. 

“I’d advise you to shove off, St. Claire,” Archie said, pushing the young man on the chest. St. Claire stumbled back, almost losing his footing on the steps. “We don’t associate with your kind for a reason. Our lives would be much better without the likes of you.”

St. Claire scrambled to pick up his things as Archie bore down on him, fists balled tight. Munroe joined Archie in the stare down and Reggie, who stayed seated, seemed to be considering this idea as well. 

Betty frowned, rising from her seat and picking up a few of the papers that floated down her way. “Three against one? Rather lopsided, isn’t it? Perhaps I ought to even things up a bit. How about that?”

Archie’s gaze swerved in her direction. The anger that seemed to darken his eyes immediately lightened into a look of sheer, cruel delight. “Sit down, little girl. The boys are going to get a little rough and we wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like you getting hurt.”

Betty knew exactly what she was going to do. He would never see her coming. She could take a single leap and launch herself three rows up. Her fist would connect perfectly with his smug, sharp jaw, and if she aimed it just right, it would put him to sleep, fall back against Munroe, and make it quite easy for her to take on both Munroe and Reggie together. She clenched her fist and was just about to spring into action when a loud voice cut through the tension.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Andrews?”

Betty turned and saw Guardian Weatherbee standing at center stage, his thick brows knotted together. His scowl was set deep in his face.

Archie chuckled. “No problem, Guardian Weatherbee. Just cleaning up the mess, that’s all. St. Claire here was a little sloppy with his papers.”

Guardian Weatherbeen did not look like he believed the story one bit, but he was not one to dawdle on the petty fights of the candidates. “Well, tidy up. We are about to start. I want everyone in their seats and quiet. Do you understand me?”

“Do you hear that, St. Claire?” Archie said in a low tone. “Tidy up.” He turned back to his friends and sat among them, casting St. Claire and Betty dirty looks as they settled. 

Betty took a steadying breath and gathered what papers she could. St. Claire whispered his thanks to her and motioned to move away. 

“You can sit by me if you like,” Betty said, more to spite Archie than anything else. 

St. Claire smiled in appreciation. He nodded and gathered what remained and took the seat beside hers. 

“Not one of my more graceful entrances,” he muttered. 

She smiled at him, kindly, noticing that he had a pin similar to the one Archie and his henchmen wore. “My name is Betty Cooper.”

“Nick St. Claire, at your service.” 

They shook hands and Betty tilted her chin in the direction of Archie, Reggie, and Munroe. “They’re not friends of yours, clearly, but you went to Stonewall like they did.”

He touched the pin on his coat and nodded. “Archie and his cronies… we don’t run in the same circles.”

“It seems the trend will continue, Mr. St. Claire.”

“Please, call me Nick. All my friends do.” He gestured to the other side of the room and Betty could see two others who gave them acknowledging waves. They, too, wore the Stonewall pins. She was beginning to think that everyone except her had gone to the same academy. 

Guardian Weatherbee finally called for silence and orientation began. 

******************

When Guardian Weatherbee told them that part of their orientation would include a complimentary lunch at the Courtyard, Betty was more than ready to get to the part where they were actually to be tried. If she had to sit through filling out more forms, reading maps of the facility, and listening to Weatherbee lecture on the finer points of the Peace Dealer handbook, she would surely go mad. 

Nick did not speak to her again, so focused he was on listening to everything Weatherbee said, and he would have written down every word if his hand could have jotted faster. Occasionally, Weatherbee would call on one of them to recite and when Reggie was called, Nick smirked and snickered in satisfaction when Reggie was unable to answer. 

Betty watched the scene with open curiosity. Truly, out of the three boys, Reggie did not seem so bad, but she supposed that in Nick’s place, it might be amusing to watch one of the bullies of his academy years squirm under Weatherbee’s unrelenting gaze. 

Reggie had looked mortified at being unable to answer Weatherbee’s questions. His embarrassment was palpable, and he looked so defeated that she tried to mouth the answer to him, but Archie’s glare was pointed and clear, and Betty could only purse her lips at his obvious disdain. 

The dejection in Reggie’s eyes when Weatherbee moved on to someone else who might provide a better answer was clear, but her offer for help had been rejected, and she remembered what Jughead told her. She must focus her energies. 

When Guardian Weatherbee said they were breaking for lunch, he asked that everyone follow him so that they might not lose their way. 

Betty gathered what little notes she took and was about to fall in step with the group when she saw Jughead leaning against the door frame. She could not help but smile, wondering how long he’d been standing there. 

“Care to sit with us in the Solar?” Nick asked, referring to the open yard Betty had seen earlier nestled in the center of the building. 

That struck her as extraordinary. She had never been asked to join a group of _ men _before. She wasn’t exactly prepared to handle this sort of invitation. “Th-Thank you, but I have made other plans.”

Nick followed her gaze. “Is that Jughead Jones?”

“Yes, you know him?”

“No, but I know of him. I shall speak with you after lunch, then?”

She nodded, as she watched him leave to join the group gathering. Archie, Munroe, and Reggie passed her by and the first two dealt her unfriendly glares. Reggie did, however, shoot her a tight-lipped smile. When most of the group had left the room, she approached Jughead with a grin. 

“Slow day?” she asked. She had not expected to see him at lunch. 

Jughead shrugged. “Father thought you might need some company. _ And, _he might know that you were somewhat motivated to do this for him.”

Betty inclined her head in thought. “That may have been the impetus, but I am not above pursuing this for my own self-interests.”

Jughead nodded, his blue eyes shining fondly as he looked at her, even as his chin rose in a thoughtful tilt. “Hush, you. We must let Cheryl think this a great sacrifice on your part.”

She stepped a little closer as she looked up at him, grinning. “Right. It is such a sacrifice, getting paid to do what I do best, being with my best friend while I’m at it.” 

He was clearly stifling a smile.

She continued. “Possibly getting partnered with my Bound Other.”

At that, his face was suddenly filled with tension and he looked around, as if fearful that anyone might overhear them. 

She pressed her hand to his chest to calm him. “There is no one here but us.” She realized, just then, that she was heavily implying that they were alone and could do _ anything _with no one to witness it, but he seemed entirely focused on the “Bound” part of it. 

He took her hand and looped it around his arm. “Come along. We’re using Guild coffers for lunch and I am taking full advantage. We’re going to Pop’s.”

She thought that idea inspired. “Ms. Lodge’s restaurant? Is it expensive?”

“More expensive than the Solar, at least. And it is just a short walk away.”

Jughead led her out of the building, and as they walked down the streets for the restaurant, he asked her how orientation went. 

“It was informative,” was all she said. 

He chuckled. “It will get more exciting in the afternoon.”

“I am counting on it.”

“I saw that you’ve made friends--and enemies, maybe? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you so quickly ruffled feathers.”

She laughed. “You noticed.”

Jughead nodded. “Archie Andrews and his crew are the best in this group of Stonewall graduates.”

“How nice for them, but they are bullies. I don’t care how good they are at Peace Dealing.”

Jughead arched an eyebrow. “Are they? Bullies?”

She frowned. 

“If you say so,” he continued. 

Before she could say anything else, they were at Pop’s. 

***************

Betty asked Jughead, carefully, at lunch whether he thought Guildswoman Burble would be willing to speak with her about Charles. 

Any mention of Charles, she noticed, brought Jughead pain, still, and she understood this, more than anyone, and the pain never really went away, but one got used to it, and she hoped that Jughead would learn to live with it, too, as she has. 

His gaze flickered ever so slightly, but he hardly missed a beat, otherwise. “Perhaps, but tread lightly. The Kin, I know, do not like resurrecting the ex-communicated.”

“Perhaps I need only ask her with regard to Charles’s employment with the Guild. She said herself that every hire and termination went through her. She might not have been Head of Human Resources then, but she may know where his files are and she might be amenable to giving them to me. He is dead and I--_ we _are his family.”

Jughead sighed. “And what do you hope to find, Betty?”

She sighed, flicking her lettuce with her fork. “I have not endeavored to determine. Perhaps I wish to understand why Charles kept me--kept _ both of us, _ if he could have helped it--away from all _ this. _I look around me, and I see wonder and opportunity. The Kin are an open, accepting people. Even with those boys being prats this morning, there were those who were willing to befriend me--respecting my right to be among them. And here I see people of color being treated with equal respect, women are allowed--even expected to keep jobs and businesses, and it boggles the mind why Charles did so little to encourage us in rejoining this society.”

He peered through the decorative curtains of their table-side window, silent and ponderous. “He never discouraged us, either. He only wished that we be prepared. And having lived this life the last six years, I may have an inkling as to why. As lovely as Kin society is for the likes of those--of us, who have had to live in the dark among the Locked, the Kin presents as a bastion of enlightenment, and in many respects New Kin City is a far more progressive society than any other Kin communities around the country, but it is not immune to corruption and hypocrisy, to gaps between communities--rich or poor, caucasian and people of color, men and women. The troubles that befall the Locked on a daily basis exist here, only here it lies in wait where it can strike unimpeded.”

Betty reflected on his observations. She had no reason to doubt him. People are people. There will always be someone greedy for power, or money. There will always be someone suffering because someone else is living an easy life. There will always be inequality, whether hidden or out in the open. There will always be injustice. No society is immune to that, and to think that any society can be will fall to the ruin of its hubris.

“I still prefer to be here, among the Kin,” she said. She preferred it to being in Riverdale, where her gifts were a secret, where her life was forfeit to marriage, where there was no one but her mother to turn to. Here, she had already met so many extraordinary women and respectable men. She had found opportunity so early on and she had experiences to look forward to in the future without the worry of matrimony to cloud it. That it was Jughead who brought her here was a boon. She could be in all this while being with her favorite person. 

He cast her a smile and he motioned to reach across the table, but a chatty gentleman stood by their table to speak with someone else, and Jughead’s distraction caused him to fold back into himself, though he continued to speak. “It is my preference, as well, that you are here among the Kin.”

She felt a little like wanting to tell the pleasant gentleman beside them to shove off. 

At the end of lunch, they walked back to the Guild and Jughead escorted her to an annexed facility designated as the gymnasium. 

It was a vast space, with more grounds outside. It was a wonder that there would be such space in the city, but New Kin existed in an overlapping plane of New York. It wasn’t beyond anyone’s imaginings to suppose that there was some Kin energies involved. 

She saw that the gymnasium floor was laid out in an intricate obstacle course, designed more for skill and agility than strength. There were targets erected at the ends of multiple ranges, winding paths for climbing, jumping, and doing all manner of creative calisthenics to surpass. There were ropes, barricades, tarps, and tunnels. 

Betty took note of the details and remembered Jughead telling her that this was included in the program, and that she would be provided appropriate clothing. Seeing as how the last woman at trials had happened over 20 years ago, she hoped they knew how to dress her appropriately. 

“I would be extremely annoyed if they gave me a dress to work in,” she muttered, making mental calculations on the course, already. 

He chuckled. “If they do, call me. I will rummage in my mother’s closet for her trousers and things.”

Betty would rather run the course in a skirt than risk Gladys’ wrath wearing her clothes, and Jellybean was at least a size smaller than her, so she would never fit. “I’ll manage. Besides, how am I to call you?”

“You have forgotten that we can communicate with our minds.”

She frowned. “I have never done so consciously, Juggie. I don’t quite know how to prompt it.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps we practice it some other time. I may know where to get reference books on it. In the meantime, I think the Guild at least has the good sense to consult with women on the matter of appropriate dress.” He nodded in the direction of the bleachers, seeing Guildswoman Burble speaking with Guardian Weatherbee. “Cheryl was clever to introduce you to the Guildswoman.”

Betty didn’t doubt Ms. Blossom’s cleverness in the least. 

“I suppose you are in good hands,” Jughead said, perhaps reluctantly. “I must go, anyway. I actually do work here.”

Betty bid him goodbye and he tipped his hat at her before he turned to go. She watched him disappear through the double doors. She hadn’t realized how long until she heard a voice behind her speak in close proximity. 

“And how did your lunch with Mr. Jones go? Better food than the Solar’s, at least?”

It was Nick, and behind him the two others he had waved at during orientation--Elio Grande and Pauly Poutine, Jr. She had seen them nodding at one another in class and supposed they were friends. They all three looked like gentlemen of means, all had the Stonewall pins, and if Betty hadn’t been talking to Nick, she might have believed that the likes of them would be snobbier. 

“It was,” she replied. 

“Is he your beau?” Mr. Poutine asked. 

Nick shot him a scowl. “Don’t be indelicate, Pauly.”

“An excellent connection, that,” Elio said, his gaze drifting briefly to the door Jughead exited. “His mother is Guild Ambassador to the New Kin Imperium and his father is a Guardian. Stonewall can’t shut up about him, besides. Did he not come from some ghastly decrepit town?”

_ There it is. _

Betty frowned. “And what does that last bit have to do with anything, Mr. Grande?”

Elio seemed unbothered by her challenging tone. “I am simply suggesting that he is a credit to this institution in spite of his underprivileged childhood.”

Betty eyed him with unveiled suspicion. His words were appropriate but his tone, posture, and expression poorly masked his underlying disdain. 

“Elio,” Nick said in a gently chastising tone. “It would benefit all of us greatly to stay on Mr. Jones’s good side, if you so value this connection.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Guardian Weatherbee taking center floor and commandingly instructing them that the gentlemen’s lockers were to the left while the ladies’ changing rooms were to the right.

It was unsurprising that being the lone woman in the group earned her varying looks of _ something _she had no patience to decipher.

Determined not to let any of that bother and being completely aware that Guildswoman Burble was there to witness it all, she squared her shoulders and promptly marched to the changing rooms. 

When she reached the changing room, the silence was surprisingly comforting. Her locker, the one and only locker occupied and labeled, had clothes and shoes in her size. A cropped jacket, a form fitting blouse, a comfortable corset with belts and straps, jodhpurs, and serviceable, comfortable boots. She found hair bands and clips, mostly for pulling her hair back and away from her face. Gloves were provided, fingerless for dexterity.

There were other provisions, not dissimilar from some of the implements she had seen Jughead use--Crystalizer, Chalk, an athame, and surprisingly, firearms. 

Charles had taught her how to wield firearms, because their targets and enemies weren’t always dead. She hadn’t used a firearm in a long while--since Charles died. Her diligence with the shooting range died with him, it seemed, but she hadn’t forgotten how to handle or shoot a gun. 

She took one of the revolvers and swung out its cylinder, checking for bullets. It was loaded, but as she slid one out of its chamber, she saw that its tip was made of rubber. The other bullets were similar. These bullets were not meant for killing, but they could injure considerably. She swung the cylinder back and spun it. Clicking the safety on both firearms, she fitted them back into their holsters. 

She took in this interesting new reality, where she could wear these strange clothes and put on these implements in broad daylight without inciting shock and scandal. She was still a curiosity, certainly, and half of the applicants probably believed she couldn’t do it, but this opportunity was made available to her and no one has filed any complaints with the magistrate nor did the Behavior Police materialize out of nowhere, like her mother had warned. 

This was why she wanted to come to New York, to New Kin--to be among her kind, to be among those who might celebrate differences rather than stifle them. 

She told Jughead last night, “They have no idea what I can do,” and it was a truth she fully intended to take advantage of. 

She was ready for this all her life. 

Taking a deep breath, she dressed. 

_ Kinsmen and Kinswomen, here I come. _

***********************

They drew lots, and the one who drew the first spot had the option to change places with the last, should the last agree to do so. 

As the drawing was conducted, Betty noticed the stand filling with spectators, and it was clear bets were being made. Betty did not want to know what they considered her odds were. 

It was unnerving enough when she emerged from the lockers and she knew that her appearance caused _ some _discussion among applicants and spectators alike. 

She had caught Archie’s eye as she made for the candidate benches and his frown was evident. She glared back at him and did not break contact until he looked away first. She caught Reggie’s eyes, too, but he seemed much less hostile. She might have believed that he was trying to flash her a grin, if her companions weren’t watching. 

There were speeches for this first trial, with Guardian Weatherbee espousing the many candidates that came before them running the course, some breaking records and quite a few becoming memorable for all the right and wrong reasons. 

“No one, as of yet, had gotten killed running this course, but the injuries have been many through the years,” Guardian Weatherbee had said and Betty believed it. With rubber bullets flying around, it was no challenge to the imagination that someone could have lost an eye. 

As Betty watched the candidates that went before her, she noticed how most of the candidates did almost the same thing, following the arrows printed on cardboards, marking the path of the course and never straying. 

Daemons were invoked when the course demanded it, prohibited where specified.

One candidate fell off a balance beam and landed so badly that his ankle twisted grotesquely as he went down. The injury was so ghastly that even invoking his Daemon could not repair it quickly enough. It took him far too long to finish the course. 

The Stonewall candidates, so far--from Mr. Sinclair’s crew to Mr. Andrews’ group, were more strategic, sometimes eschewing the arrows for more innovative paths, all finishing at equally impressive times, and Betty took notes of their technique. Sigils needed to be drawn, but not for trapping ghosts, merely to complete them and invoke them with utmost speed. 

Betty already knew what her biggest advantage was--her size. She was smaller than all of them, lighter on her feet and in weight. Her fingers were more nimble with tools and her sigil craft was considerable, given Charles’s unorthodox tips from his journals. She could go faster than most of them, and her one weakness just may be her accuracy with the revolvers. 

Nevertheless, she could handle that challenge well enough. 

By the time Archie Andrews walked to the start of the course, his intensity almost seemed to radiate from the tips of his red hair. When he shot out of the gates, he moved like a comet possessed. He was fast, skilled, and precise. His agility was astounding, and when he struck with bullets and daggers, she envied him his accuracy. He faltered only in the sigil making--taking a bit longer to figure out which sigils to use and how to create them, but he had zipped through the other parts of the course so quickly that even that did not cost him the top spot--the fastest run of the day, beating his own best friend Monroe Moore and his rival, Nick St. Claire. 

Betty grumbled under her breath about Jughead being right about him and his friends being the best in their class.

But as impressive as their times were, she was unbothered by Archie’s bravado and the sly way he cocked a grin at her when it was confirmed that he was faster than anyone. 

_ I’ll show them. _

And when her time came, she _ did. _Everything Charles taught her came to the forefront. Every thug she chased down in the crowded streets of the Southside arose from her memories. Every obstacle she jumped, climbed, and crawled into was superimposed with scenes of her past trips in the wild with Charles, free climbing rocks, hunting deer, squeezing between cracks in a cave--none of this was foreign to her, and her sigil craft was efficient. She did not choose complicated sigils. Charles had gifted her with the ancient, but more efficient runes, meant to be drawn when ghost winds and spectral fyres were buffeting Peace Dealers from all sides and time was of the essence.

She did struggle with her accuracy at the handguns, which might have docked points from her time, but at the end of the course, a rifle was the last weapon they were expected to load and shoot. At this, she was flawless, having hunted for her food. She hit dead center on the target, earning her the highest points at the rifle range. 

She crossed the finish line in a slide and the loud thunder of applause. She was a millisecond under Archie’s time and the moment that time was called, she shot Archie a grin and a wink, which made him stare dumbly, at a loss for words. 

People at the stands stood to cheer her, and when Betty scanned the stands, Guildswoman Burble caught her gaze and gave her a nod of approval. Beside her, Ms. Blossom and Ms. Topaz appeared to be screaming the loudest. 

The candidates that followed after her were less memorable, except perhaps for Reggie’s turn. He almost seemed as fast as Archie, barreling competently through the course. Betty found herself cheering for him, urging him to keep going amidst the similar encouragement from others, but he faltered at the rope climb, falling from the top and landing hard on his back.

It looked like an alarming fall, and Betty had an urge to run and help him, especially when it looked like he wouldn’t get back up, choking loudly as he rolled over, folding upon himself in apparent pain. 

Betty motioned to get up, but she was surprised when Archie’s voice cut through her thoughts. 

_ “Don’t,” _Archie hissed. “He’s handled worse than this!” 

Betty frowned at him over her shoulder, but just when she decided she wasn’t going to let anybody tell her what to do, Reggie summoned his Daemon, probably to heal himself, and promptly thereafter rose from the ground to continue. He was unable to make up for the time lost, but he finished with speed and elegance. He did not have the best time, but he showed an admirable sense of determination, and like Archie, his accuracy with weapons was admirable. 

She could see the disappointment in Reggie’s eyes, and he couldn’t even look at Nick and Elio when they laughed at him. She frowned at their callousness. 

“You did an excellent job at the targets, Mr. Mantle,” she said as he passed them. “Your accuracy was notable.”

He stared at her in surprise. “Thank you, Ms. Cooper.”

“Leave him alone,” Mr. Andrews growled. “You couldn’t care less about him.”

She was about to speak right back at him when Nick interrupted their exchange. 

“Shove off, Andrews. Your boy can’t sneeze without his father beating the living daylights out of him. I believe Cooper has better things to do than listen to you get fussed everytime she speaks to your pet.”

It occurred to Betty that they were calling her by her last name, which felt a little inclusive. Like she was one of them, but she also realized that Archie saying that her words of encouragement were insincere made her feel terribly uneasy. And what did Nick mean by Reggie’s father beating him? Surely that was untrue. 

After the last trainee, Ben Button, completed the course in good time, Guardian Weatherbee declared them officially dismissed, that their results would be posted on the billboard by the Solar, and that should there be any failures today, the same would be indicated on the sheet.

The class broke and Betty began to head for the lockers. 

“I’m quite sure _ my _recruit made the cut today,” came Ms. Blossom’s voice behind her. “Convincingly.” 

Betty was pleasantly surprised to see that Jughead and Moose stood just behind her and Ms. Topaz. 

“Any idiot with a pair of seeing eyes and a reasonable sense of time would conclude that,” grumbled Jughead, sardonically. “Are you sure they heard you all the way in California, Ms. Blossom? About how she’s _ your _recruit?”

“Shush you, hobo,” Ms. Blossom quipped. “This is my moment of triumph.”

“Darling,” Ms. Topaz said in a gentle tone. “Don’t you mean it’s Betty’s triumph?”

Ms. Blossom caressed her cheek. “_ Ma cher, _ the triumph is mine. I was the one with all the risk. Ms. Cooper barely had anything to lose”

Betty could only laugh as Jughead and Moose exchanged exasperated glances. “I am surprised you had time to watch, Mr. Mason. Thank you for coming.”

“At the risk of sounding ungallant,” Moose said. “I had the time because Ms. Blossom managed, yet again, to convince Mr. Jones senior to assign his son to his desk all day, hence _ I _had nothing to do, either.”

“Please, Mason,” Jughead grumbled. “As if you do not have reports to make up for and submit.”

“He’ll be desk bound all week,” Ms. Blossom said, grinning, and when Jughead shot her a glare, she feigned shock at his hostility. “You didn’t think I would let you get away with this fiasco unscathed, while your dear distant cousin does all the hard work rescuing your father, do you? You ought to be thankful that is all I have deemed to punish you with.”

“I have promised you my transfer Cheryl, what else do you want?”

Moose’s jaw dropped. “You _ what?” _

While Jughead was distracted, explaining to Moose that they could talk about it later, Ms. Blossom addressed Betty once again. “How were you so fast at the course?”

Betty thought about how she would explain it to Ms. Blossom and decided she did not need to know the details. “Practice, I suppose.” 

“Practice, meaning chasing down hoodlums in the Southside and climbing the rocky cliffs of the Adirondacks and Appalachians in her youth,” Jughead supplied for her. “She learned to live off the land before you had ventured the entire length of your family’s ancestral backyard. She also hunted game for food, hence her accuracy with the rifle. I always said--our mentor should have put up an academy.”

He sounded so proud of her that she could feel a flush rising in her face. 

Ms. Blossom huffed. “Why in the world would I suffer the lack of luxury and Kin plumbing? What do you take me for? Poor?” 

Ms. Topaz rolled her eyes, but fondly. “We didn’t all grow up with a mansion, lovely.”

Ms. Blossom gave Betty another sticky look. “I’d wager this one did.”

Betty couldn’t quite argue with that, but she could already see Jughead’s hackles rising, so she said, “Is anyone headed home, soon? I know it is early, but--”

“I have meetings to attend,” Ms. Blossom said. “Could take hours. Mr. Jones might be headed home, however. I’m sure staying at his desk would bore the ghost out of him.”

Betty pursed her lips and watched Jughead’s expression go from annoyed to defeated. 

“Not quite yet,” Jughead finally said. “With all the paperwork father gave me, I must go back to my desk to finish up before I can go. I would like to ride home with you if you can wait, Betty. I won’t be long.”

“Take all the time you need, Jughead. I am not fussed.”

“Well, _ I’m _fussed,” Moose cried. “Don’t take too long, Jones. Don’t keep the lady waiting.”

“As you wish, Lady Moose.”

Moose shook his head as everyone laughed around him. 

Jughead tipped his hat at them with his usual gentility. “I will see you later, Betty. Ms. Blossom and Ms. Topaz, good day.”

“Good bye, hobo.”

Jughead left, and Moose followed soon after, leaving them with his own polite goodbyes. 

“Why do you call him hobo?” Betty asked Ms. Blossom when Moose was gone. 

“Because he once admitted to my Antoinette that he slept in a train car and she told me,” Ms. Blossom explained without pause or shame.

Betty transferred her frown from Ms. Blossom to Ms. Topaz, who simply shrugged and said, “I was weak for Cheryl, what would you have me do?” 

Betty wondered, yet again, what sort of relationship Jughead and Ms. Topaz shared that he told her things that Betty thought he would tell no one else but her. 

“Never mind that,” Ms. Blossom said, looping one arm around Betty’s and leading her to a group of distinguished looking men and women, one of which included Guildswoman Burble. “Let me introduce you to some more of our most distinguished friends…”

**********************

Betty felt calm the entire time she was changing back into her clothes and walking towards the results sheet on the billboard. Just as she assumed, she had a PASS on the side of her name. All the Stonewall boys, including Reggie, made it through the first trial, as well. The one fail was the candidate who dislocated his ankle. He would have to try again in another six months. 

As she walked the hallways to exit the building, she saw Munroe and Archie talking to some of the other candidates in the program. They glanced her way briefly, but they did not hold her gaze. 

The halls were still busy this time of day, but it was a more subdued buzz than the early morning rush hour. 

The courtyard was quieter, too, even as the streets of New Kin bustled with pedestrians and carriages, horse drawn and automized. 

She thought she might explore the surrounding streets briefly while she waited for Jughead. As she stood at the top of the steps trying to decipher which side she should start her exploration, she spotted familiar faces huddled together at the marble base of a stone statue of Cernunnos, one of the most revered Daemons in Kin history. 

It was Reggie, surrounded by Nick, Elio, and Pauly Poutine. She could not hear what their conversation was about, but she could tell by Reggie’s downturned eyes that it was not a pleasant one. 

As she got closer, she heard Nick speaking in an impossibly superior tone. “... barely made it through the first day! I suppose it’s only a matter of time before your father hears of your dismal performance. What he gets for taking in his bastard child.”

Betty did not know Reggie’s entire story, but the notion of bastard sons taken into a home struck so close that she could not help but take offense on Reggie’s behalf, for clearly Nick’s intentions were mean spirited, and she couldn’t believe Reggie was just sitting there, eyes to the ground. He could take on all three of them with one blow. Why was he letting them talk down on him, so?

“There’s no need to be cruel, Nick,” she said in as stern a tone as possible as she stepped into the circle. “Leave him alone.”

Nick was surprised by her rebuke, but not terribly bothered by it. “Cooper, no need to pretend. There is no one here to see you playing nice to the riff raff. He’ll make an interesting pet, but if it’s a pet you want, I’ll find you a dog--something Chinese, even. Or is it Korean? You chinks all look alike.” 

Grande and Poutine laughed.

Betty breathed through her anger. Who did this scrawny rich boy think he was? He suddenly looked like his governess wiped his behind for him well into his teens, rather than the helpless young man in this morning’s orientation. “Shut it, Nick, and I’d ask you not to presume to know what I think, unless you want a taste of what my mind really thinks of you right now.”

Grande and Poutine hooted and nudged St. Claire’s shoulder, who was smiling so toothily and with such a lascivious spark in his eyes that it made Betty’s skin crawl. 

“I’d want a _ taste,” _ he said. 

“Don’t speak to her that way!” Reggie said, unexpectedly. 

“Oh, listen!” St. Claire cried. “Reggiekins is demanding better treatment for _ someone else! _I suppose he can’t demand it for himself. His father has him by the neck--might disown him for the heck of it. Or maybe his father’s fist is scarier? No, it’s certainly the money. Get in trouble here and his father will cease to support his mother.” 

That was probably as much as Betty could take. She shoved her hands against Nick’s chest. “What is the _ matter _with you? Were you born this way or does it take practice to be such a blight to humanity?”

Nick looked shocked this time, not because of her words, but because she dared to lay a hand on him. “Should have known that any associate of Jones would act like nothing more than the trash heap from whence he came.”

Betty gave into her instincts, then. She kicked him right between the legs, and as he crumpled with an agonized groan, she swung her fist and it connected with his nose. She felt a crunch beneath her knuckles and Nick fell back with a cry, one hand coming up to cover his face while the other held his groin, rolling over and folding into a ball on the ground. 

“You blonde bitch!” he choked. 

Elio and Pauly fell upon him, clearly confused by what was happening if their jaw drops were any indication. 

Nick shoved their hands away from him. “My bits! My nose! She broke my nose!”

“That was just a taste, remember?” she said, viciously. “Wait until I serve up a full meal.”

Elio and Pauly appeared to come to their senses at her words and they began to advance in her direction. She wasn’t afraid. She could fight off two men without breaking a sweat, but they froze in mid-step, their gaze going past here. 

“Lay a finger on her and you’ll not be able to walk tomorrow for the second day of trials. I promise you, we’ll be thorough.” 

It was Reggie, and it occurred to her then that while Reggie was willing to take insults about him without a fight, he wasn’t going to stay quiet when someone else was being threatened. She also noticed that Archie and Monroe had come up behind Elio and Pauly, surrounding them. 

“Just give me one excuse,” Munroe growled. “They didn’t call me Mad Dog at Stonewall for nothing.”

They didn’t move a muscle. 

“Take that worthless piece of dung and go,” Reggie told them, pointing to Nick. “Before Cooper finishes the lot of you off.”

Amazingly, they listened, picking Nick up between them and dragging him away as he spewed very vile language. As they scrambled back into the building, all Betty could do was shake her head in disgust. 

“I can’t believe I was so wrong about him,” she muttered, mostly to herself. She checked her fist. It was a bit red, but the blood on it wasn’t hers. 

“We all have been wrong about others,” Archie said, holding out his handkerchief for her use. “How fare you? Are you hurt?” 

Betty arched an eyebrow, taking a moment to understand that Archie was now speaking to her like a human being and that he had just acknowledged that he had been wrong about her, too, or maybe that they’d been wrong about each other. Cautiously, she took the offered handkerchief and wiped off Nick’s blood. 

She spent a bit of time smoothing back her hair, which she felt had somehow gotten ruffled by her anger, if that were possible. When she finally did look up, she met Reggie’s intense gaze. 

“Thank you,” he said. “That was--you were brilliant.”

She hadn’t expected him to say _ that. _

“I mean,” he stammered, reddening. “Anyone else might have let me fend for myself, but you intervened.”

“Reggie always looks like he could take care of himself,” Archie interjected. 

Reggie tilted his gaze at him. “Well, I could but--it is complicated. Cooper, that was very brave of you.”

“There are plenty of Nick St. Claires around the world, you know,” she said, casting him a kind smile. “I know nothing of your story, but you must not let them talk to you like that.”

Reggie shrugged. “I just need to earn my keep. And when I have enough, I don’t have to rely on my father’s good graces for my mother’s care. In the meantime...”

She sighed but did not argue. She, too, had contemplated a life of hard compromises to ensure hers and her mother’s uncertain futures. “What a beast Nick St. Claire is. And to think I thought he was being bullied by you and your friends.”

“He fancies himself charming to the ladies,” Munroe said, grinning. “What with his pristine blue eyes and refined suits.”

Betty made a face. “Please, his ‘charm’ had nothing to do with it. I thought he needed protecting.”

They laughed and from there they exchanged other Nick, Elio, and Pauly insults. Betty found herself contributing easily to the conversation. 

It was interesting how she found the Kin so easy to socialize with, from Ms. Lodge to these fine young gentlemen, she was finding them all interesting and lively. 

She was laughing at one of Archie’s sillier jokes when Reggie paused and nodded as he looked past her head.

“Oy, I think he may be looking for you,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Jughead waiting at the steps. He tilted his hat at them before sticking his cigarette in his mouth and his hands in his pocket. His gaze returned to the courtyard but Betty knew she had to go.

“I wish he would stop smoking so much,” she muttered, gathering her skirts. “I must go, gentlemen. But we shall see each other again tomorrow, won’t we? Might be fun to watch Nick St. Claire walk in with a broken nose.”

“That’s Jughead Jones, isn’t it?” Reggie asked. “Cousin, I might have heard someone say?”

Archie laughed. “What he meant to ask was--are you and Jones together?”

Reggie hit Archie’s shoulder, his face growing red to his roots. 

She felt her own face grow warm. “We grew up together, Jughead and I. He is--complicated, but we aren’t--you know...” She felt wholly unqualified to explain, so she hastily gave them a curtsy. “I really should--”

They returned her curtsy with exaggerated gentlemanly bows and she laughed in spite of herself. She turned and headed towards Jughead, who was watching her with an arched eyebrow. 

“Changed your mind about them, didn’t you?” he said when she was near enough. 

“I’m beginning to resent you being right all the time.”

“I have been wrong far too many times. I am merely catching up,” he said in all seriousness. “What happened to your friend, Nick? I passed him and his group at the nurse’s office. Something about a broken nose.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“I see. And his nose… not your friend, either?”

She checked her knuckles. The redness was growing into a dark purple shade and an ache was settling beneath her bones. “Nothing against his nose… just that it happened to be on his face, is all.”

Jughead cradled her hand between both of his to get a closer look. “You know, if you wish to be in a fight, the least you can do is let me know. It would have been profitable to wrangle a few wagers.”

He was joking, but the gentle glide of his thumb against her skin sent pleasant shivers through her and all she could do not to fall apart was to shrug and say, “It was over in two seconds.”

“But it was an intense two seconds, judging by this bruise.”

She could feel that he was telling her something, and even with the look of pure concern in his eyes, it harkened back to his words the night before, how he will do everything to protect her. And while some women, as Cheryl said, might find that swoon worthy, she was never such a woman. She frowned. “I can take care of myself, you know. It’s all I’ve done before you came around.” She pulled her hands away from him. 

He stuck his cigarette between his lips and frowned back. “Yes, but you aren’t alone anymore, Betty.”

The carriage came around the bend and halted in front of them. 

Jughead opened the autocarriage door for her. “After you.”

Sighing, she rolled her eyes and stepped into the car. He tossed the butt of his cigarette to the curb before he followed in after her. 

  
  


tbc


	10. Those Did Bind in Fate and Blood

The bruises on Betty’s knuckles had faded, Jughead noticed, and he turned his gaze away before she caught him looking. 

She did not like it when he hovered, and it was a sentiment he understood all too well. He abhorred the constant drone of others’ concern, having felt the full press of it after Trev’s death—the phoniness of people who never spoke to him before, the propriety of tragedy from total strangers he would have preferred to stay anonymous to him—it stifled, the artificial sympathy.

Given that, his concern for Betty was as real and as deep as bone—and yet she seemed to be under the impression that he thought less of her when he minded her well-being. 

He supposed he should not have dug in last evening, when he tried to come across as teasing her for resorting to fisticuffs, when what he actually wanted to do was scold her for getting into trouble. 

_ Without you?  _

Elemiah.

Sometimes he questioned the perceived limited sentience of Daemons. They were only supposed to summon the wisdom that the Kinman had himself, untangled from the web of interconnected thoughts. They did not offer unsolicited advice, nor did they know any better than what the Kinman knew in the first place. 

Kin scholars reasoned that Daemons who offered advice without being asked were acting under the summons of the Kinman’s repressed feelings. In other words, they were the little voice in one’s head that many so often chose to ignore. 

_ I was not being jealous,  _ he thought, stubbornly. Nonsensically.

_ There was no mention of jealousy.  _

Jughead shut a mental door in his head. This so often worked when he wanted to silence Elemiah. 

He wondered briefly if Betty had summoned Sabathiel to heal her hands, or if she had let the bruises heal on their own. After all, even without summoning their Daemons, the Kin healed from their injuries more quickly and more efficiently than the locked. 

As if to remind him of the fallibility of their kind, the old injury in his arm gave a twitch. 

_ Maybe not as efficiently.  _

Jughead sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head to himself. Would his Daemon not be silenced today?

“Jughead, is there something wrong?” Betty asked, her voice cutting through his inner arguments.

“There isn’t. I just remembered that we haven’t discussed today’s trials,” he explained, quickly. “Man-to-man--well, person-to-person combat. If Charles taught you what he taught me--”

She waved her hand lightly. “He might have taught me more extensively than you. He believed that I was more likely to get assaulted, as a woman.”

Jughead found himself momentarily struck, his turmoil chased away by the sobering reality of her words. 

He worried about her, sometimes--about things that people did not normally think of for someone like Betty, whose outsides were wrapped in pink parasols and French lace, but whose insides ran dark and deep, like night and shadow. 

“Charles’s training has served me well,” she added, perhaps having noticed that he had grown ponderous. 

“It is not about winning,” he replied, to clear the building unease. “It is about technique. If you show them you can fight, regardless of whether you win or lose, the proctors will let you through. How is your fencing?”

She shrugged. “Could be better. The toughs in the Southside weren’t exactly the fencing type.”

She often casually referred to the roughness of the Southside, like she was apart from it, but even if she didn’t live in it, she had worked in it most nights, for years, and while he couldn’t bear to think of it, he wondered if she always got out of it unscathed.

He hoped that he could create a place of trust between them--for her to tell him everything, good or ill. For now he would take what she gave him. 

He was confident, at least, that Betty would know enough to get through. At the very least, half of those chaps would probably hesitate to strike her, much to their detriment. 

“I will try to hurry back in time for your trials. Given that Cheryl is doing everything to keep me miserable, father thought it best to send me straight to the field this morning.”

Betty chuckled. “Do not hurry back on account of me. I can make it through the day without you, Jughead.”

Of course she can. He certainly believed it, but it did not make Moose’s bark of laughter any less infuriating. 

They arrived at the Guild, and as the autocarriage pulled up to the curb, Jughead spied the familiar face of Reggie Mantle, who was watching the vehicle’s approach. 

Jughead tried not to look so incensed by this one-man welcoming committee. 

“There’s never a shortage of escorts, is there?” Moose balked from the driver’s seat. “Yesterday it was Ms. Blossom, today it’s this chucklehead. How come nobody ever waits for you, Jones? I think you need to smile more.”

Jughead was about to respond with his own sarcasm when Betty said, in a gently chiding tone, “Oh, don’t be unkind.”

Jughead could always count on Betty to defend him, it seems. “Tha--”

“He is not a chucklehead. I think he’s clever enough,” she added, peering through the glass with an amused grin on her face. 

_ Oh. _

When the autocarriage came to a stop, Jughead pushed the door open and he could immediately tell by the wilting of Reggie’s smile that he had expected Betty to step out first. 

_ Really. _

Jughead tossed him a withering glance before he turned to extend his hand to Betty.

She stepped out and Reggie’s smile returned with exponential brilliance. He bowed gradiosely to greet her. 

Jughead did not bother to hide the roll of his eyes, but only Moose seemed to notice, and he laughed at Jughead’s expense, no doubt.

Betty only seemed mildly amused. “Mantle. To what do I owe the honor of this reception?”

“Least I can do, after you rescued me yesterday from St. Claire. I am, and always will be, at your service.”

“You are too kind, but this is not necessary,” Betty quipped. 

“Yes, Mantle. Unnecessary,” Jughead grumbled. 

“The pleasure of punching St. Claire on the nose was all mine,” she added, quickly, almost as if to speak over Jughead’s grumblings. 

Jughead wished for Reggie to go away, but the man would not be deterred. 

“Joking aside, St. Claire is not to be trusted. He is vicious and vengeful. Best we move about in pairs.”

Jughead could feel the irritation building in the back of his head. “Pairs? I think not. Groups, now there’s a revolutionary idea.”

Reggie dealt him a glare so icy that it brooked no doubt that Jughead’s sarcasm was not lost on him. 

Even Betty cast him a softly chiding smile. “Juggie…”

Jughead’s neck felt hot with a mix of mild mortification and great pleasure. She had never called him Juggie in front of  _ anybody else  _ before. He cleared his throat and loosened his tie. “Mason and I must go. I suppose it’s convenient that Mantle is here. I was going to at least walk you to the front reception--”

“And risk being spotted by Ms. Blossom?” she said, gently. “Go. I will see you later.”

His hesitation was an instinct born of both duty and concern. 

“I will be fine,” Betty insisted. 

She would be, and he needed to leave, before he said anything else to Reggie that he may regret. Tipping his hat, he finally realighted the autocarriage, this time joining Moose in the front passenger seat. 

He hardly noticed the vehicle moving as he eyed the precise footage between Reggie and Betty from the carriage window. 

“Are you sure Reggie got the message, Jones?” Moose quipped. “I don’t think you were clear enough about your opinion of him and his intentions about Ms. Cooper.”

Jughead shot Moose a glare. “He is a fool.”

“Oh, Juggie,” Moose said in a maddeningly sweet tone. “I don’t think that is for you to decide.”

*********************

Betty watched Moose and Jughead drive off momentarily and when she turned her attention back to Reggie, she saw the question in his gaze. 

“What is it?” she asked, carefully. 

Reggie’s gaze shifted from her to the departed autocarriage briefly. “He seems… protective.”

Betty felt heat come off her collar. “It is his way. He’s known me since I was very young, so some habits are hard to break. He is--” she managed a small smile. “--my best friend.”

She was thankful when Reggie did not insist any further, focusing instead on the trials, and how this was the Guild’s favorite of all trial days. 

“Gamblers, all of them,” Reggie said. “And today’s trials are nothing more than well-mannered prize fights. How necessary is this, given that we hardly come in conflict with the living?”

Betty thought the way she was Peace Dealing, defending herself was a rather regular endeavor, but she kept that to herself. “What does Andrews and Moore think of it? Do they share your sentiments?”

“They have been looking forward to this day since they started at the academy.”

She could see it in them, with their hardened shoulders and the measured instinct to compete. She would not be surprised if the two did prize fight in their spare time. 

“I was hoping,” Reggie continued, “to speak to you about the partnering portion of the trials--day three. Have you considered who you’d want to be partnered with?”

Betty hadn’t given day three much thought. All things considered, she wasn’t sure if she would make it through day two. The judging on the second day was purely subjective, and if they did not think her capable of taking on grown men, one-on-one, then she could be removed on certain technicalities, so she only gave thought to trial days as they came. “I did not realize we had the option to choose.”

“We don’t,” Reggie added hastily. “But arrangements could be made--quietly, you understand. Stonewall takes care of its recruits. They want to make sure we are partnered with the right candidate, so as not to ruin our chances for the crest, and they make their recommendations, but those recommendations can be overruled by our own request.”

Betty laughed softly, amused by the little machinations that governed these proceedings. “Are you then implying--assuming Stonewall has already chosen someone for you--that you wish to overrule that recommendation by, perhaps, requesting someone else?”

_ “Yes!”  _ His large grin was endearing. “I hope to request someone else, exactly.”

“And why are you telling me all this? You could have, say, done what you wanted without anyone being the wiser. Like me, for instance; I have no academy to assist me on these matters. I likely would have been partnered with some poor sod who happened to be un-particular.”

He shook his head. “Everyone knows you have been recruited by Ms. Cheryl Blossom--she will take care of you. She might very well have partnered you with Archie, who did well in yesterday’s trials. By saying so I hope to impress upon you the complete picture, Cooper. Archie likely won’t mind being partnered with you--you beat him in the first trials and he respects you for it--or he would want to best you for it.”

“As would I,” Betty supplied with a tilted grin. 

Reggie gave her a nod of acknowledgement as they walked up the front steps and paused beside one of the Daemon monuments perched on the side. “You have a chance at being partnered with Munroe, as well. More likely than Archie, in fact, if Ms. Blossom does her research. He is the best of Stonewall, so it is with absolute humility I ask you to consider my proposal--of being partnered with me. I might not be the best, Cooper, but I can assure you that I am collaborative and resourceful. Munroe won’t care whom he gets partnered with. He needs no help. He will look good no matter what. And unlike Archie, I do not need to be better than you. I only wish to show my willingness and effectiveness as a partner. Cohesiveness is what the Guild is looking for. They wish to see that you can work in harmony with your fellow Peace Dealers. I don’t need an answer now, but I hope you would consider it.”

She made a show of pondering his proposal, but she did not answer him just yet. She was considering it, and as they headed to the front reception, it occurred to her that Reggie’s furtive glances and gentle smiles just might mean he wanted more than a professional partnership. 

He wasn’t wrong about Archie. He seemed incredibly competitive, and in a partner trial, that would not work for either of them. She was certain she and Archie would figure it out--working together, but she was used to a partner that worked with her. She was used to Jughead knowing what she needed even before she did. She and Archie would waste time maneuvering the complexities of tamping down their egos and  _ then  _ putting their heads together to complete their task even before they took on the case. 

As for Munroe, she might learn something from him, but if it was all the same to him, he didn’t need her, and Betty, for all her independence and grit, did like the notion of being needed. 

Reggie’s willingness to work with her from the onset would start them further ahead than expected. That he would let her take the lead would be motivating in the extreme.

But the way Reggie looked at her--

She wasn’t immune to his rich ebony locks and dark eyes. 

The sharp cut of his jaw and full lips were a delight, and he stood tall--as tall as Jughead. She did not doubt that Reggie was ever overlooked for his handsome friends. They were an extremely attractive group of boys, and objectively, Reggie’s attentions should be thrilling her. 

It was flattering, that was for certain, and truly, this seemed like a perfectly professional proposition, so it would seem presumptious to tell him that she could look to no man past Jughead Jones. 

“Make your request, Mantle,” she finally said. “I will speak to Ms. Blossom when I get the opportunity.”

Reggie’s smile was radiant, and Betty could not help her feelings of pleasure--at having made someone happy. 

As they walked past the turnstiles, she heard Mr. McGinty calling her. As she turned to look, he had approached, his hands behind his back as he gave a nod of greeting. 

“Guildswoman Burble asked for you, Ms. Cooper. You must attend her at your earliest convenience.”

Betty stamped out her pang of anxiety. She got the feeling that wasn’t permission to make the Guildswoman wait. “I will go to her at once, Mr. McGinty. Thank you for letting me know.”

Mr. McGinty seemed pleased by her response and he nodded again before turning back to his post behind the reception table. 

“You’ll be joining us for those dreadful orientation classes, won’t you?” Reggie asked. 

She nodded. “I shall. If you don’t see me, it means the Guildswoman has sacked me.”

Reggie frowned. “That is not funny. If I don’t see you, I will march into Guildswoman Burble’s office and demand her to take you back.” 

Betty laughed. “You won’t.”

“I suppose I won’t, but I’ll come looking for you.” He waved a finger for emphasis. With that, he tipped his hat at her and made for the classrooms. 

Betty watched him go. She’d had gentlemen callers in her life, most of whom were twice her age. The young eligible men in Riverdale were far too convinced of her oddness and would rather not be associated with her, but even if they were, none of them had gained her interest. 

Reggie Mantle was more than tolerable. He was respectful and self-assured. Burdened by a possibly abusive father and the care of his mother, his character only seemed stronger for it. He was good company and would make a great friend. 

She looked forward to getting to know him a bit more. 

***************

The Guildswoman asked Betty to sit. 

Guildswoman Burble looked neither incensed nor pleased. Her expression was one of neutrality. She did not seek to intimidate, for once again, she was too preoccupied with the papers on her desk.

“A moment, Ms. Cooper. I just need to finish writing this last bit or I will forget…” She scribbled furiously on a document before pressing a period to the end of her sentence and enclosing the document in its folder. “There. Now we can talk.”

She set that folder aside and picked up a new one, opening it and placing her hand flat upon the papers in it.

Betty eyed the folios nervously, wondering what could have possibly led to this summons. Perhaps this was standard for all recruits? Did Ms. Blossom know about this? Not likely, for surely she would have delivered the message herself. Guildswoman Burble had asked Mr. McGinty to tell her so that no one who might protect Betty would know.

“The first thing I noticed in your application,” Guildswoman Burble began, “was that you are staying with Representative Gladys Jones and her family. What an interesting arrangement. I did not know you were related.”

This was, to Betty, becoming more intriguing by the moment, but also stressful. “We are like family. Jughead and I met when I was young. We were very close, and my brother taught both of us the ways of the Peace Dealer until Jughead left for New Kin.”

Guildswoman Burble arched an eyebrow. “Jug...head?”

Betty bit her lip. “Forsythe Pendleton. Junior.”

“Ah.” The baffled expression on her face did not wane in the least. “Representative Jones’s son. A latecomer to Stonewall but top of his class, nonetheless. Of course. I spoke briefly with the representative. She is very pleased to have you in her home, but speaking of your brother… I did not find much. Charles Cooper, was it? I found his severance documents in our files. Rather thin on information for someone who took honors in Stonewall, though he only worked at the Guild for a bit… barely half a year. It was as if the Imperium wished to erase his existence…”

Betty waited, saying nothing. She did not know the consequences of having an ex-communicated family member. She knew that when Charles was alive, her mother’s choice to be with him during his banishment was effectively banishment for all of them, but with his death, the restrictions they shared with him were lifted. Still, she did not know how that association was perceived.

Guildswoman Burble’s eyebrow raised at her silence, but only for a moment. “I believe you know where I am going with this. Your family chose your brother over the Kin by opting to accompany him.”

Betty shrugged. She never thought about how it had affected her family. She was only four or five when Charles left Riverdale to attend academy--Stonewall, at 17. He came home on many weekends, and for someone like her who wanted for nothing, days and the passage of time was easy. She was never old enough to want to be among the Kin, and living in Riverdale, which was mostly populated by the Locked, was her daily life. 

She vaguely recalled being eight or nine when talk of becoming Forsaken filtered between door cracks, of Alice and Charles arguing and discussing it, without much detail for Charles insisted that he could not tell her more. Nobody explained the proceedings to Betty. It just became, and Charle’s Daemon, whom Betty barely laid eyes on to begin with, was silenced forever. 

Being Forsaken with her brother meant they were barred from entering the gates of New Kin City. They were also supposedly barred from associating with other Kin outside of it, but that seemed impossible to enforce. Nobody explained that to her, either, and she assumed it was how Charles was able to take Jughead under his wing. 

“We were content,” Betty said, aware of the non sequitur. “Charles kept to the rules. If we ever associated with Kin during that time, his passing automatically absolves everyone of the association. We, his family, weren’t Forsaken on record, so we do not carry his sentence with us, either.”

Guildswoman Burble seemed amused. “I am not here to cite you  _ or  _ Mr. Jones for your associations, Ms. Cooper. You are right. Your brother has passed away and all restrictions and penalties associated with his ex-communication passed with him. Jones is perfectly allowed to talk about his mentor without consequence. He might have already let the cat out of the bag  _ before  _ your brother died, but the Guild tends to be lax about such matters. The Forsaken are the business of the Imperium, not the Guild. In Guildsman Hall, our business is Peace Dealing. We were, of course, obligated to remove your brother from our ranks when the order for his ex-communication came, but I highly doubt the Guild did it gleefully.”

Betty wasn’t sure if the Guildswoman didn’t know or if she was pretending not to know. Charles’s reservations rested solely on the Guild. He had never spoken ill of the Imperium, though Charles did not provide an explanation for his wariness of the Guild, either, so her guess was just as good as the Guildswoman’s. 

“Then what is it that you need from me, Guildswoman? I have given you all the information I can share.”

She said nothing, at first. She seemed to be thinking about how to answer. “I don’t like  _ not  _ knowing things, Ms. Cooper. At this time, I do not know why your brother was ex-communicated. I have no access to any such records. I know  _ some  _ things about you, even with Riverdale’s civil records being woefully inadequate. I know that your brother, Charles, bequeathed his estate to Mr. Jones, whose inheritance oddly never came into question. I know that Jones is using this inheritance to fund the running of your home at Elm, and that he continues to support you and your mother, and while that is commendable of him, it is not something I would expect of a promising young man who might have better use for that wealth.”

Betty had to admit, she was impressed by this sleuthing. “Jughead is a good man, Guildswoman. I cannot presume anything else.”

“You are avoiding my question,” the Guildswoman said, calmly. 

Betty shook her head. “If you wish to know more about my brother’s ex-communication, you are in a better position to find out more than I could. Charles never spoke to me about it, and if he gave my mother any details at all, she never told me.”

Guildswoman Burble shook her head. “I know that Charles Cooper would not have told you or your mother. Ex-communication terms will always include the non-disclosure clause. It is one among a handful of terms that are strictly enforced. No one shall know  _ why _ . It is rumored that a sigil is imprinted on the Forsaken so that the authorities may be alerted to any provision that may be broken, but that is something only the Imperium executor and the Forsaken will know.”

This conversation was proving to be fascinating to Betty. Charles never dealt into such detail. “What are the other unbreakable provisions, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Guildswoman Burble’s chuckle was soft, but it did intimidate. “What makes you think I am privy to such information, Ms. Cooper?”

“You know more than anyone in this building, I’d wager.”

“You flatter me, but you are not wrong.” She shrugged, lightly. “What I know of the Forsaken is all conjecture. Pieced together from years of wanting to know more. Certainly, one of the unbreakable provisions is the Forsaken are forbidden to cross the gates of major Kin cities--New Kin, Ville Souterraine in Paris, Kin Gàidhealach in the United Kingdom, Jiji la Kin in Nairobi...across the globe, he would not be welcome in Kin strongholds. The other provisions I am certain of is the non-disclosure of the whys. It seems consistent that nobody beyond the Imperator or Imperatrix, the advocate, the adversary, the tribunal, and the forsaken know the details. Whether or not they act with impunity is beyond my paygrade. The other provision that I am yet uncertain of is the extent to which the Forsaken can speak to other Kin…” 

Betty felt a stab of anxiety. “I thought you said Jughead cannot be held accountable for speaking to my brother now that he is passed?”

“And that remains. The transgression has to be occurring for the charges to hold water, so having spoken to the Forsaken in the past, particularly if that Forsaken is dead, cannot be held against him. Also, the Kin aren’t in the habit of filing a report to the Imperium for another Kinman they suspect has current relations with the Forsaken. It’s too much trouble and it is difficult to prove. Besides, I don’t believe your brother and he had much contact while Mr. Jones was in New Kin, am I right?”

Betty nodded. “No. They did not have contact at all.”

The Guildswoman nodded. “Mr. Jones, however, would have been endangered at the time that their interactions were occurring. The Forsaken are allowed to speak to each other, but I theorized that they were only ever allowed to speak to their family at length. Anyone beyond that and the Imperium would come down upon them… and yet--your brother seemed to have interacted with Forsythe Pendleton Jones Junior and Senior on a constant basis.”

Betty pursed her lips. 

Guildswoman Burble wagged her finger lightly. “Of course, all that is theory. We don’t hold Ex-Communication classes, but my instincts tell me there is something amiss and I will find it out if you won’t tell me.”

“I have nothing to hide.” Betty was proud of herself for saying that with a straight face. 

“I’m sure you and all the people who have told me that are telling me the truth.” She closed the folder in front of her. “I can sweeten the deal, Ms. Cooper. I am a reasonable woman, at times. If you give me any useful information now, I can put in a request for the retrieval of your brother’s Daemon.”

Betty blinked. She wasn’t sure she heard right. “I beg your pardon, my brother’s what?”

“Your brother’s Daemon.”

“But--”

“Did you not know that his Daemon still exists? Oh, Ms. Cooper. The Kin are nothing if not bound by paranatural law. We can clearly forsake a human being--not an easy measure, I’m sure, but we would never slay their Daemon intentionally. The Daemons of the forsaken are kept until the Forsaken dies, and only then can we send the vessel containing the Daemon off to the Room of Realms where he would be released and allowed to return to his maker. It is a measure, I believe, to keep the Forsaken’s family from inheriting it at his death.”

Betty was too shocked by this to be too calculating with her next words. “Would the Daemon know, then? About what happened? Perhaps that is the reason the Imperium--”

Guildswoman Burble shook her head. “No. The sentience of a Daemon is tied solely to its Kin Bearer. Other Kin may not directly address someone else’s Daemon, unless sorcery is applied, which, as you know, means that Kinman is a Daemon Lord.”

Betty was reeling at the fact that Charles’s Daemon was still accessible and that Guildswoman Burble did not take into consideration how the Bound could address each other’s Daemons. Or maybe she did, just that she did not think it figured into this discussion, which told Betty that the one thing Guildswoman Burble did not know was that she and Jughead were Daemon Bound.

Would Betty, however, be willing to give information in exchange for Charles’s Daemon? Would she be willing to reveal, for instance, that Jughead and Charles were brothers and that was the reason why Charles was able to interact with Jughead and FP for so long without consequence? 

_ Calm yourself.  _

She needed time to think. She must never be so impulsive. “I have no new information to give you, Guildswoman.” 

“This is a one-time offer. It won’t be available to you again.”

There was nothing that challenged Betty more than someone telling her no. If the Guildswoman won’t offer her brother’s Daemon next time, she would just have to take it for herself. “Then I suppose I have lost my chance to inherit Charles’s Daemon.”

Guildswoman Burble seemed both disappointed and impressed. “Have you ever wondered, Ms. Cooper, what became of your father?”

This was a question Betty did not expect to be brought up. “I never met him. I was told that his ship to the carribean was attacked by pirates and burned into the sea.”

Guildswoman Burble made a sound. “Yes, that’s the story, isn’t it?” She flipped open her pocket watch. “I think you should go on ahead to orientation, Ms. Cooper. Guardian Weatherbee does not take kindly to late comers.”

Betty stifled the urge to demand a clarification. What did she mean by that? Was she trying to imply that the story told to her about her father was untrue? Or maybe the Guildswoman was just trying to distract her.

She had to remind herself that information was the Guildswoman’s trade. Betty could not hope to outsmart the Guildswoman in her own arena. Betty had to summon her discipline and play to her own strengths and not get drawn into the Guildswoman’s playbook. 

Betty excused herself and hurried out of the office, thinking the entire time that she needed a plan and that she needed to find out when next the Room of Realms would be activated, or else Charles’s Daemon may be lost forever.

*****************

When Betty walked into orientation, all concerns she may have carried from Guildswoman Burble’s office were temporarily chased away by the sight of Nick St. Claire with a bandage on his face.

It looked far more ridiculous than she could have imagined. A leather face belt had been employed to keep his bandages in place, and it looked so outrageous that Betty felt the slightest twinge of guilt for having inflicted such a humiliation on him. 

She tried her best to stifle the laugh that tumbled from her lips, but to no avail.

Nick noticed her entering the room and the look he dealt her was filled with hatred. 

She felt no need to goad him any further. He got what he deserved and she had nothing more to say to him. As she passed him, Reggie saw her and he rose from his seat to greet her. 

It was at that moment she felt the harsh claw of St. Claire’s hand on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare turn away from me, Cooper!”

Her instincts immediately took over, born from nights prowling through the rough alleyways of the Southside. Her grip was sure, practiced, and strong. She grabbed his hand, pressing both her thumbs to the back of his knuckles as she gripped firmly, and twisted his arm as she turned to face him. His elbow gave a pop and he yelled, his body forced to compensate for the awkward angle lest he wished his elbow dislocated completely. 

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed into his face, teeth grit. “Ever.”

She could see from her peripheral vision that Elio and Pauly were once again ready to rescue him, but they hesitated when they saw she had Reggie, Archie, and Munroe behind her. 

“What’s going on there, Ms. Cooper?” came Guardian Weatherbee’s voice from the doorway. He had just walked in. 

Betty immediately released Nick, pushing him back. “Just showing my friends some fighting techniques for this afternoon’s trials, Guardian.”

She could see how Nick’s face was drawn with pain as he gingerly stretched his arm back to normal. She dealt him a glare, this time. 

“Save it for later, everybody,” Guardian Weatherbee said, irritably. Nobody missed his exasperated mutterings of “Every damn time…”

“You will be sorry for this, Cooper!” grumbled Elio, darkly. “Not all of us want to treat you like a princess.”

She curtsied like one before turning her back on them and taking a seat between Reggie and Munroe.

“Are you alright?” Reggie asked, softly, while Guardian Weatherbee began drawing a diagram on the chalkboard. 

She was about to reply when Munro’s soft scoff forestalled her and he said, “Did you see Nick St. Claire? Ask  _ him.  _ Impressive moves, Cooper. Archie might want to take notes.”

Archie gave a scoff of his own. “What makes you think I didn’t?”

It felt good to be validated this way. No scolding, no reminders that young ladies were supposed to wait to be saved--she was a good long way from her mother’s rules, which was to assimilate and show no distinction, unless it was to impress an eligible bachelor who wanted a sweet, demure, and obedient wife. 

It brought her thoughts briefly back to her father, Hal Cooper. Alice hardly spoke of him and Betty had to wonder why her entire life was cloaked in so many secrets. 

She forced her thoughts back to the class, telling herself that if she let Guildswoman Burble’s words that morning permeate her thoughts, she would do badly in today’s trials. She needed to focus and she needed to remember that unlike the toughs in the Southside, she was surrounded by a room full of trained men. 

Surely, she had bested Nick twice already, but she had surprised him both times--hardly a measure of his skill. She had always been scrappy, and that mindset would always help her in a fight, and she had learned how to use her smaller size to her advantage. But assuming Nick was the worst of the lot, everyone would be ready later. It was quite different, facing an opponent who was prepared and trained. She might find all of them challenging in that regard. 

Reggie kept throwing her furtive glances, smirking when she caught him staring. She wondered momentarily if his regard for her would be to  _ his  _ disadvantage. Archie and Munroe would be tougher, as Reggie said. They relished this part of the trials. 

She noticed, however, that she wasn’t the only one who seemed to be sizing their opponents up. From her vantage point, she could see the recruits looking at one or the other whenever Guardian Weatherbee referenced the rules and points for the afternoon’s events. 

As the morning classes ended, they were once again invited for a sponsored lunch at the Courtyard, and this time, Betty accepted Reggie’s invitation to join them. 

They took a seat among the stone tables, the grass beneath their feet and the sun filtering through the roofless courtyard.

It was while Archie was sharing his observations of the other recruits and their assumed weaknesses that Betty looked up and saw Jughead at the Courtyard entrance. He scanned the faces around him and Betty could only assume that he was looking for her. 

When his gaze fell on her, his face lit with a soft smile and she contained the thrill she felt whenever she made him glad or happy. 

“It’s Jones,” Archie said, mostly to Reggie, whose expression showed little to no emotion. Notable, since Betty observed that he was an expressive man.

As Jughead approached, his frown grew more pronounced, and she became ever aware that if he reached their table, she would have to introduce him. She could spare him the torment. 

“I will only be a moment,” she said, standing to meet Jughead halfway.

Sure enough, her decision for a private audience seemed to ease the tension from his face. As they met, he gestured to move to the side, so that half the candidates wouldn’t have to watch them speaking. 

“I almost forgot how gossipy academy boys were,” Jughead said, lifting his hat at her while throwing his gaze back at the eyes that followed them. His distinct glare made them all turn back to their lunches. 

She watched him command them all with a single look and found that to be immensely attractive. He did often say in the past that if it weren’t for Charles, he would be leading the Southside gang that Sweet Pea now ran from his pawnshop. 

As gentle and soft as Jughead was with her, she saw that grit in him, more pronounced then than now, but as gentlemanly and refined as he had become, it surfaced every so often, like now, and this morning, when his displeasure of Reggie was clear. She wondered if he still remembered how to handle a switch blade and that if he showed her now, she might just invoke the vapors. “Back from your missions?” 

With one final glare at Reggie’s table, he turned back to her. “I am. Cheryl is yet to notice my absence. How was your morning? There was word of a skirmish in the classroom. Frankly unsurprising, since this happens every second-day of Trials. It is all those male energies in the room.”

Betty bit her lip and Jughead saw through it immediately. 

“Of course you were involved.” He didn’t look terribly alarmed, however. He looked at her with mild concern. “Are you alright?”

“You ought to be asking that question to Nick St. Claire.”

Jughead frowned. “What did he do?”

It pleased her that Jughead immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was Nick’s fault. “He thought he could exert himself and I disabused him of the notion.”

His frown deepened, his gaze going to Nick’s table, possibly waiting for Nick to look his way. She took a moment to take in Jughead’s profile, and when he said, “Good,” firmly, she was in dire danger of causing a scandal. 

How she managed to resist, she did not know. Perhaps putting her hands behind her back helped restrain her, though she did lean slightly forward and he did not move away in the least. “Did you come here for a particular reason? Or did you just want to gossip, like the other academy boys?”

This seemed to restore his earlier grin. “Remember how I said we should learn more about our--” he exaggerated a thoughtful expression-- “joint situation? There is a lot of literature on the what, but precious, precious few on the how. Lucky for us, I believe I know where to look. I heard back from a request I put in a few days ago and I have permission to look through the library archives.”

He waved the slip of paper before her and she took it, reading its contents. 

She noted the official Guild seal and the head librarian’s signature. The bureaucracy of the Guild amazes her still, but she was far too endeared by his joy--at having gained entry into some forgotten part of the library. “When shall we go?”

“After your trials, provided you aren’t extensively injured or maimed.” He said it quite casually.

She could not help but be amused rather than offended. “You seem unconcerned.”

‘I have every confidence that you will beat the living daylights out of most of these recruits.” He tipped his hat at her once more. “As proof, I will put a wager on you for this afternoon’s trials. How about that?”

She fought hard, but failed, to contain her smile. “Would it be too forward to inquire as to how much?” 

“Enough to get you a new hat--to replace the one you lost,’ he replied, stifling his own grin as he turned to leave. 

Betty watched him walk off, and she had to check her expression for the fondness that surely showed on it. 

As she returned to her table, she caught Reggie watching. The hasty retreat of his gaze made the voice in the back of her head make itself known, but she tamped it down. That would have to be a conversation for another day. 

*******************

The afternoon trials began with a frenzy of onlookers, noisy with their bets and sometimes their support. Cheryl Blossom arrived with Toni Topaz and Veronica Lodge, all of whom were quick to settle themselves behind her on the bleachers. 

Veronica, eschewing all decorum, leaned over the railing and cried, “I have my money on you,  _ chica.  _ Show them what you’re made of!”

“You have Ms. Veronica Lodge cheering for you,” Archie said, mystified. “The daughter of the Prime Guildsman.”

Betty waved at Veronica in acknowledgment before replying to Archie. “She is… a friend. I don’t believe she knows what I can do, honestly.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a friend, if you put it like that,” Archie grumbled back.

Betty hadn’t much of a leg to stand on regarding this counterpoint. “She is Jughead’s friend—has been so for a while, I’m told, and she has expressed that she would like to be mine, as well. I have no reason to reject her, as she is sweet and welcoming.”

“She is beautiful, too.”

Betty regarded him with amusement. “Well, I shan't argue with you there. Perhaps there’s an opportunity to be introduced, someday soon.”

“Perhaps.”

When the trials commenced, the volume in the stands hardly lowered and Guardian Weatherbee had to speak above the din, explaining how each round was sudden death, but that the more they could showcase their skills, the better it would look. Fights happened concurrently in the three square mats set throughout the gym, and spectators could see all three from the stands.

Betty had promised Cheryl that she would impress and Betty had every intention to do so for this trial. As expected, Guildswoman Burble was in the stands, and Betty was momentarily taken back to that morning’s conversation with her. 

Jughead’s appearance at the doors reminded her that she was yet to tell Jughead of her morning meeting. 

She would have time to tell him everything later, so she could focus on the task at hand. 

Matches were made by luck of the draw, the reasoning being that one could not choose the size and strength of one’s opponent in real life. Thus, Betty found herself matched against a burly and shockingly blonde fellow named Eversham for her first fight, which, when they first stepped onto the mats, looked heinously askew. She might have imagined the gasp from the stands, but Betty was unconcerned. She had outsmarted larger men than him. She wasn’t likely to win on strength, but she was very adept at physics and pressure points. 

“I won’t go easy on you,” he told Betty in a gruff tone as he went into stance, and grinning, she told him, “That’s what they all say,” which did exactly what she meant for it to do: to confound. 

When he came at her, she could immediately tell that his strategy was to submit her, wrestling-style, onto the ground. She respected that it would perhaps be the best means to beat her without striking her, which was a shame, because all things considered, getting struck was perhaps her biggest weakness. 

So when Eversham charged, she used the angle of her body, the force of his approach, and the studied grip of his clothing to use his power against him, scoop him off his feet and send him crashing onto the mat, winded by the weight of his body hitting the floor.

Three minute rounds required a yield and if one so desired, a knockout, so Eversham hadn’t quite lost. He got back up, shook his head, and went back into stance. Betty could tell as they circled one another that he intended to be more deliberate about his attack, so as he dove to grab her, she slipped right out of his arms and swerved for the full body mount behind him. She latched onto his back and locked her arm right around his wide neck. Thus leveraged, she crossed her other arm to lock on the back of his head, which she immediately began to apply pressure on. 

His initial struggle was fierce and he almost peeled her right off him, but she put her strength and weight into the lock, and slowly, the muscles of his arms loosened, his knees buckled beneath him, and he began to teeter forward. 

When his knees buckled beneath him and he started to fall over, face down on the mat, she released him before he hit the ground. He was already gaining consciousness by the time she stepped away from him, but he was so disoriented that she was quickly declared the winner and the audience watching her match erupted in both shouts of disbelief and cheers of triumph. 

A quick look at Jughead proved that banknotes were reluctantly being slapped into his hand and Betty grinned, ready for her next fight. 

Her second opponent went for the strike, but he wasn’t quick enough, and she avoided him so easily that she was able to employ her throws and get a hit in, herself, but clearly, the earlier rear choke wasn’t going to work again, so she tried another tack--shock and awe. As she managed to flip him onto his back a second time, she covered him with her body, and as expected, he was positively scandalized by the notion of a woman mounting him in full view, which allowed her to twist, lock him to the floor with her legs across his neck and body, and stretch his vulnerable arm straight as she leaned her body back. Her little twist on his wrist had him screaming, “I yield!” while he slapped the mat with his other hand. 

The laughter and loud applause that followed sealed her spot amongst the most favored to win and she could see money being exchanged in the stands. 

With the winners of the first brackets decided, the trials moved on to blunt force weaponry, and Betty  _ ruled  _ these matches. She was particularly practiced at this, having had to pick up all manner of available junk to swing with or use as projectiles. 

She rather liked heavy kitchenware and the occasional discarded fireplace poker, but having been presented with weapons designed for the task, she was able to apply her skill with grace. She was good at swinging things with force, but she was quite adept at doing so with style, whether it was with a staff (her first fight), or the less often used tonfa (her second fight, against Elio), which was impressive and lovely when wielded with skill. 

Elio felt the brunt of her tonfa, which in many respects Betty found funny, because out of all the fights she’d had that day, it was Elio who never hesitated to hurt her. His vicious sneer brooked no mercy, and she relished it, since she landed a hit that knocked off a tooth. 

He spat the tooth out on the mat, staring at it in horror, and when he came at her in blind fury, it only served to make him easier to dispose of. She side stepped his charge and twisted her body to swing both her tonfas towards the back of his shoulders. They both landed, one after another, with pert thwacks, and Elio fell on the mat, writhing at what was no doubt rippling shoulder pain. 

She knew what that felt like. It wasn’t dissimilar to a gigantic wrench to her back, thrown by a ghost wind. It was nothing she hadn’t experienced herself, but Elio was perhaps not as used to such knocks. He did not get up, even as he cursed her lineage from the floor. 

He was hauled out by two other recruits, sending him straight to the bench, his tooth being handed over to him shortly thereafter. 

She saw that Reggie had taken a seat as well, a bag of ice held to his head. Daemons were being summoned to heal injuries, some of which were alarming in nature. There were broken bones, dislocations, and there was most assuredly blood. Even with the Daemons, the nurse’s station at the corner of the gym saw an influx of patients.

Amongst those who made the fencing round were Archie, Munroe, Pauly, Ben Button, two recruits from Saint Castiel’s Academy, one recruit from overseas, and Betty. 

She had time to deliberate as the finalists were asked to change into proper fencing equipment. She was surprised when a lady was present at the lockers to assist her, which helped her get ready quicker. 

Fencing was not Betty’s best event, because it was steeped in constraints and rules, two things she rebelled against on a constant basis. She was better practiced with a bokken, because it appealed to her striking talents with blunt objects, but that did not count as one of the offered weapons. It was, Betty imagined, too exotic. 

They were using the  _ épée,  _ which to Betty was only slightly better than the foil but not as comfortable for her as the sabre. 

She beat her first opponent from St. Castiel’s--even Betty knew fencing was not his best event, either. The second round had her against Munroe, and Archie against a St. Castiel recruit. 

Fencing had never been her forte, but she was going to put up a fierce fight. Munroe was relentless and Betty had to summon all her endurance to keep up. She managed to get a few points on Munroe, but he caught her with a disarm hit and her weapon went flying off the mat, which got him the win and her the elimination. 

Shouts and cheers came off the stands again and Betty hated how her best at fencing wasn’t good enough. But as she tore off her mask, she could not bring herself to display her frustration. 

Munroe’s smiling face and sportsmanlike handshake had her chuckling under her breath. 

“I could not have chosen a better man to best me, Munroe,” she said. 

He grinned in response. “You are a formidable opponent, Cooper. I am honored to have had this opportunity to be matched with you.”

Munroe was declared the winner and Betty made her way to the bench, sinking beside Reggie who was giving her an expectant look. 

She shrugged. “Munroe was better.” Her disappointment was palpable this time, having no need to hide such feelings on the losers’ bench. 

He laughed, softly. “You just got defeated by the best fencer in Stonewall. There is no shame in that.”

Betty supposed she ought to be thankful she got this far.

As the final fight between Archie and Munroe commenced, it was clear that Archie was outclassed, and not three minutes into the round, Munroe had scored a large lead. The winning move was once again a disarm hit, with Archie’s  _ épée _ slapping to the ground.

Munroe had won, overall, and Betty cheered with the rest of the crowd. 

She was glad day two trials were over, and that as predicted, she wasn’t maimed, or even injured. 

Guardian Weatherbee announced that results would be posted and that the class was dismissed for the day. As soon as everyone broke to go their own way, Betty’s cheer squad descended upon her, with Jughead following close behind. 

“An exceptional performance!” Ms. Blossom cried, clearly pleased in spite of her loss to Munroe. 

Ms. Topaz, with her distinct smirk, was the most affable Betty had ever seen her. “And you took down opponents twice your size. I am impressed.”

Ms. Lodge quickly looped her arm around Betty’s. “Impressed? I am positively in awe. Jughead, you did not tell me she could literally bring a man to his knees. You must teach me that chokehold, Betty.”

Jughead chuckled. “Bringing a man to his knees is the least of her talents.”

He was surely joking, but Betty felt a hot flush of pleasure and pride at the way he looked at her saying it. 

“Did you bet on me?” she asked him. 

“Of course I did!”

She cast him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. You lost that last time, then. You bet on me in spite of knowing fencing was not my forte.”

“I would bet on you every single time, Betty,” he said in a gently chiding tone, as if she should know better than to question his loyalty. “Besides, I had already won considerably in all the previous events.” His wink sent her stomach aflutter. 

“I saw that you’ve made friends,” Cheryl said, nodding in the direction of Reggie, Archie, and Munroe who were grouped together, not too far away. “Arguably the right kind.”

Veronica directed her gaze at Archie Andrews. “Exceedingly right.”

Betty had an incredible urge to play match-maker. “Mr. Andrews told me he thinks Ms. Lodge is beautiful.”

Ms. Lodge’s eyebrow arched, though she seemed pleased. “Did he, now?”

The roll of Ms. Blossom’s eyes were decidedly distinct. “He is quite the physical specimen and he has rated quite well in the last two trials, but his marks in sigil theory and ritual application leave much to be desired. He is intellectually lacking.”

Ms. Lodge waved her words away. “Oh, that matters little in the grand scheme of things.”

“I always thought intelligence mattered most in the grand scheme of things,” Ms. Topaz said, with a tilt of her chin. 

Ms. Lodge gave Archie another slow inspection. “We can’t be overly picky sometimes, is all I wish to infer.”

Betty could feel the sarcastic energy that was about to radiate more loudly from Jughead and she tapped her foot pertly against his to prompt his silence. He pressed his lips together in response.

“I think Munroe would make an excellent partner for your third-day trials, Betty, my dear,” Cheryl said, eschewing formalities for the first time. “Don’t you think?”

“I think so,” Jughead said. 

“Or Reginald Mantle. I’ve heard good things about him,” Cheryl added. “He put in a request for you. There is a lot to be said for someone so willing to recognize your brilliance.”

Jughead’s face grew inexplicably red. “Betty is clearly better matched with Munroe. She deserves to be partnered with the best.” 

Cheryl shrugged. “She deserves to be partnered with someone who will allow her to shine. Munroe knows this for himself, as well. You understand this about partner trials, Jones. We must all be strategic.”

“I have no objections to being partnered with either of them,” Betty said, gently. “They are both of them good lads and I would be honored either way.”

“You will know tomorrow how I decide,” Cheryl said, cheerfully. “In the meantime—“ she turned to Veronica, who was reaching into her purse. “Veronica has something for you.”

“Invitations,” Veronica said, holding up two envelopes and handing them to Betty. “So close to the date, I thought it best to deliver it myself. Having you wait any longer would be too rude, even for me.”

“Lovely,” Jughead muttered, loudly enough. 

Betty turned the invitations over and saw “Ms. Elizabeth Cooper” written in elegant script. She knew what occasions they were for, and if she remembered correctly, it was a means to get Jughead to participate in at least one of the festivities with supposedly more enthusiasm. “This is for your birthday soiree.”

Veronica grinned. “Correct! And it is later in the week. I told you at our last chat that I would love for you to come. There will be dinner and dancing, and many interesting people—artists and scientists, journalists and Guild leadership.”

“Sounds splendid.”

Jughead’s sigh wasn’t the least bit restrained.

“ _ Response s'il vous plait! _ Send it through the Guild post and it will be delivered swiftly.”

The ladies bid her goodbye, congratulating her on her continued success. As they left, Betty spied Veronica and Archie exchanging lingering looks across the floor. Betty realized, with only the slightest hint of shame, that matching Veronica with Archie was her way of assuring herself that Veronica and Jughead were just friends, as they claimed. 

Betty stifled a grin and found Jughead watching her with an amused arch of his eyebrow. 

“What have I done now?” she asked.

“Look at you, playing the matchmaker.”

Her face grew hot from being caught. “Andrews and Veronica happened to be mutually attracted to one another. I am simply communicating and bridging the facts. For my next trick, I will encourage Andrews to introduce himself.”

“Why not introduce them yourself?”

“Where is the fun in that?”

His soft laughter, invoked by her, felt like a feather down her spine. “Matchmaking is the least of your abilities. I was proud of you during today’s trials, Betty. Have been proud of you. Charles may have taught you well, but the quick thinking and your instinct and skills to survive--that is yours, alone. It was unmatched on that floor today. I wholeheartedly believe you could have beaten Andrews. The final match should have been yours and Monroe’s.”

She grinned, fighting the urge to hook her arm around his. “Thank you. That means so much, coming from you.”

He nodded. “I will wait for you at the bleachers while you change. We shall head to the library immediately thereafter.” 

Even after all the extraordinary events, she realized that this was probably going to be her favorite part of the day.

******************

The door to the archives was situated at the far end of the library, where an archivist, with his Daemon, sat at the entrance and completed tasks that were all related to the preservation, admittance, repair, and classification of forgotten and unwanted books. 

He had a staff of two ladies tasked with implementing their rules and practices, and they roamed the archives in the execution of their duties. All their hands were white-gloved, meant for the protection of the most fragile of their collection. Their jobs were not dissimilar from museum curators, only that there were hardly any visitors to their displays and shelves. 

So unusual, perhaps, was their presence there that Betty and Jughead’s appearance at the door seemed to have brought the entire staff of three to the front desk, curious about what sort of person would want to peruse their section of the library. 

Jughead handed over their permission slip, and as the head archivist examined the signed document, he appeared to do so the way he assessed the books that crossed his desk. 

Betty wondered if he was looking for anything akin to forgeries or flaws in the paper, but all appeared to be well, because the head archivist filed the slip away and asked them specifically what they were looking for. 

Jughead raised a finger as he dug inside his coat, producing a folded slip of paper. He handed it to the head archivist. “I would like to find the works of this author. He may have published a dozen or so books.”

One of his assistants looked over his shoulder. “I believe I know where these books could be found--non-restricted. No gloves required.”

The head archivist nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Good. We will let you look for these books in peace, but you must stay within the designated section, and you are not allowed to take any of these books out.”

It sounded reasonable enough, until they were brought to the “designated section” which were so deep in the recesses of the archives that the archivist had to flip a series of switches to power the lights. 

There was plenty of dust, but thankfully no bugs or rodents. 

“We keep cats,” the assistant archivist explained in a straightforward, mirthless tone. “They have a warm place to sleep and eat, most especially in the winter, and in exchange they keep the archives rodent and pest free. They can come and go as they please, so long as they’re back in here in the evening before we close. One or two of them like to stay here even in the day, so don’t be surprised if a furry thing rubs against your leg all of a sudden. I request that you not kick them.”

Betty should like it if any one of the cats introduced themselves. “I do not kick cats. What are their names?”

“They have collars, and it’s written on there if one lets you look. The friendliest one of the lot is Tybalt, but Pluto may make an appearance. She is moody, therefore unpredictable. Their names are derived from any character in the book they first interact with when they are brought here. Tybalt knocked over  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ while our friend Pluto quite literally rubbed the side of her face into the corner of a collection of Edgard Allan Poe’s works. Naturally, we named her after the cat in  _ The Black Cat _ .”

Betty was amazed how all those delightful facts were told in such a dispassionate tone. 

“What if the book is prescriptive? With no characters?” Jughead asked. 

The archivist did not find this amusing. “Books have authors, Mr. Jones.”

“Ah, of course.”

When they arrived at their designated shelves and the archivist left, Betty shot him a chastising look. “Honestly, Jughead. Was it necessary to be smart with her?”

“I was intrigued if they had the humor to name a cat Workmen’s Compensation, or some such ridiculous thing as that.”

She laughed and began to peruse the books. “Shall we find this author of yours and his books?” 

“Hardly. The author I supplied wrote about sigils for sailors. We just needed to be in the right section and I did not want the archivist to know what for.  _ This  _ is the author we are looking for.” He produced a different piece of paper, with the name Paracelsus. “He has an extensive record of old sigils that he experimented with, some of them too overly complicated for modern use, but he also referenced Alpha Sigils. We will start with him and follow the trail he leads us on.” 

“Alpha sigils?”

He nodded. “The first sigils, when Kin were always paired with their Other—for the Daemon Bound.”

Betty felt a thrill like she never had before.

Jughead dragged the available rolling stairs to the shelf and climbed it, scanning spines with quick eyes. “The Daemon Bound were already growing rare by the time Paracelsus started writing about the Alpha Sigils. He didn’t dedicate his studies to them, but some of his peers surely did. It is one of those peers we have to find, and we can only do so by looking through these older books. I have not yet come across references to Alpha Sigil-themed books in the more modern tomes I have been reading, except for him--Paracelsus. The Kin stopped teaching these Alpha Sigils around the 1780s and they faded into obscurity, which is why we are here now.” He stopped at a row of books and his eyes lit. He began pulling books from its shelves, pilling them into his arms. 

Betty, momentarily captivated by his enthusiasm, regained mobility and helped collect the books. 

Having no tables or chairs, she set them on the ground and began flipping through the pages. They had a pile of over twenty books, divided into two towers, and Jughead sat across from her, his hat set aside, as they looked through each of their assigned books together. 

They added books to their piles as they went, working silently as they took books and put them back. Not all of them were in English, but the sigils and symbols were uniform across the cultures, and many of them were decipherable from their sigils alone. They could worry about translations later. Jughead had a notebook for their scribbling and they shared it, along with the pen she had given him. 

Bety was so engrossed by their efforts that she hadn’t realized the time. She looked at her pocket watch and saw that a little over an hour had passed since they first started. They’d made a good effort, but they were yet to discover the alpha sigils that Paracelsus had referenced. Many of the sigils they’ve seen were familiar, the ones that weren’t were mostly useless to them, like “for clarifying urine” and “for easing the effects of inebriation.”

They plodded on, and as a reward for their perseverance, they came upon the first sign of alpha sigils in the author’s work. They referenced the date of publication and sure enough, they were able to follow the trail--to a book buried among the stacks.

As Betty read through it from the top of the rolling stairs and found that it had pages and pages of alpha sigils, she gave a clap of excitement. “Jughead, I think we’ve found it! This is the book!” 

Jughead climbed the ladder and sat one step lower so he could look at the book on her lap. 

She flipped through the medium sized volume, about an inch in thickness with a wide breadth to accommodate the sigil illustrations, clearly marked for their specific purpose with explanations to accompany them. The beginning of the book highlighted the importance and power of the alpha sigils with a simple foreword: “Yond which is impossible high-lone can beest accomplish'd togeth'r in pow'r.”

There were dozens of them in the book and it would be impossible to copy them all. She noted the most interesting ones: “Lighteth of the travelling lamp,” “Moveth the grownd”, “Enhanc'd w'rdless discourse”, “Shareth teen”, and “Discourse with aeth'r daemons.” 

She stared at the last one, noting the sequence of the drawing, the words that needed to be said, and what minerals worked best for its invocation. The sigil was complicated to draw, but it brought her back to what the Guildswoman told her that morning, and the memory descended upon her like a cloak. 

“Betty, this is exactly what we need!” Jughead said, eyes bright with their success. “It looks old, and I think it’s academy issued, but if we check the year--”

“We can talk to Charles’s Daemon,” she said, cutting through his excitement. 

As with every mention of Charles, Jughead’s mood shifted, that stab of pain clear in his gaze. “What do you mean by that?”

“Guildswoman Burble called me into her office this morning,” she said, a frenzy taking hold within the pit of her stomach. “She told me Charles’s Daemon was not destroyed, that it was being held until next they opened the Room of Realms. She told me that she can request its retrieval from the Guild, but because I refused to give her information, she has rescinded the offer. We must find a way in and steal Charles’s Daemon back!”

“Betty!” The warmth of Jughead’s hands enveloped hers and it was enough to quiet the low buzz that was developing in her head. She took a deep breath and more slowly told him of the things Guildswoman Burble said to her. 

When she had told him everything, he looked at the sigil on the page and at her. “So what you’re saying now is that we need to get that vessel containing Charles’s Daemon and speak to it, because this Alpha Sigil says we can.”

She nodded, clasping his hands back. “We need to take this book, Jughead. We can only summon Charles’s Daemon  _ once  _ so we cannot get this sigil wrong. It is complicated and we may make mistakes in the copying of it.”

He was already giving her that  _ look  _ that spoke a thousand warnings _ .  _ “Betty.”

When he got this way, disapproving, but without anger, she knew she would be able to convince him otherwise. “It isn’t just that. Look, ‘Shareth Teen’—that is ‘to share pain’ in old English.” She took up the book and read the passage out loud. “‘P'rchance thine aethyr taketh on such an ov'rwhelming wund yond wouldst causeth thine aethyr to p'rish, thou shareth of its sev'rity may holp thy aethyr to liveth. Alloweth those did bind in fate and blood shareth in both gl'ry and teen’ She looked up at him and grinned. “Would you not want to know that? Help your Other to survive a deadly injury? Everything in this book is essential.” 

“That book’s over a hundred years old. It is valuable and I’ll wager it is priceless, even buried as it is in these common shelves! If we get caught stealing that, we could land in the clink. I promise you, the Guild will do it.”

She doubted that the Guild would be so determined, especially with someone like Jughead. “It is the easiest thing to sneak this book out. The archivists will never be able to detect its departure.”

He frowned. “And how do you propose we sneak this out? Will you be spiriting it away beneath your skirts?” 

She found that his audacity emboldened her even more. “Can we not summon our Daemons and walk through the walls?”

The look he dealt her was almost filled with disappointment. “This is the Guild’s stronghold, Betts. These walls are Daemon proof!”

She was not to be deterred. “We will tuck it into your coat.”

“That will  _ not  _ fit in my coat.”

This was not an argument. “It will fit into your coat.” She made her way down the steps and urged Jughead to join her. Ignoring his protests, she shoved the book underneath his coat vest. It was noticeable if one looked closely, but it was in no danger of falling out of hiding if she secured it just right. 

“It is uncomfortable,” said Jughead in a petulant tone. 

“Oh, hush. I am fixing it.” She undid some of his vest buttons, adjusting the book so that the corners of it would not dig against his ribs. In her effort, she gave his shirt an indelicate tug.

He made a sound. “Do you mind?”

She could not help but grin up at him apologetically. “I apologize. I have never undone a man’s clothing before.”

“Never?”

She detected a hint of something quite unlike anything she’d ever heard from him before. She dared to look up but she could not decipher what his gaze meant. “Contrary to popular belief, I have only played the whore to a point. I am usually spared the more unsavory duties of it by employing strong soporifics.”

“That was not what I was thinking.”

She laughed softly. “There would have to be  _ someone  _ I had to practice with, and they were not presenting themselves. All I got were the old and… withering. The young and spirited did not want me. Even if they did, they would have to be eligible. Mother would’ve never introduced me to some charming but penniless fellow.” She tucked his coat over the edges of his coat vest. The book was still quite noticeable. 

“I find it difficult to believe that they did not come in droves,” he said in a gently teasing tone. “You are… you have so quickly enraptured Mr. Mantle.”

She looked up at him in surprise and his eyes rolled in gentle reproach. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

The heat from her neck was nearly unbearable. “It is not for me to presume. He has said nothing to make his intentions known.”

“He will make them known.”

She bit her lip, refraining from comment. She leaned back to look at him and frowned. “I am afraid I could only hide the book so much, but it will have to do.”

He chuckled as she scurried to put away what books they had taken out back on their shelves. “Perhaps you can distract them with something while I tiptoe my way out.”

She stuffed the books back and was satisfied when they looked neat upon the shelves. “Do be serious, Jughead. Honestly, there is no reason for them to suspect that we are  _ stealing  _ anything.”

“Except we are. Stealing.”

“We are borrowing the book. We will return it at some point, and is this not a library? Where books are borrowed? How dare they assume otherwise.”

“Yes, how dare they?”

His smirk, she thought, was decidedly devastating to her. 

She took his hand and led him down the walkways, scanning the area from any determined archivist that may deter their theft. 

“We will never get past the head archivist,” he whispered. 

“Be silent,” she hissed. “I am  _ thinking.” _

They heard footsteps approach. 

“Well, there’s no time like the present to test the efficacy of your plan. If I walk a certain way, maybe they won’t notice!” Jughead said in her ear. 

Betty took another quick look at Jughead and she realized that they would  _ never  _ get away with this. She  _ should  _ have hidden it under her skirt, but there was nothing to secure it, unless she clenched it between her legs, which would make walking normally quite impossible. 

The footsteps grew louder, and she stared at Jughead in panic. 

He looked at her in clear dismay. “So  _ now  _ you reconsider this caper? Now? As a witness approaches? The evidence, by the way, is on my person!” 

Betty wasn’t concerned that they would be brought to justice, she was concerned that they would not be able to get the book out and that they may be banned from the library forever, thus ruining any chance they may have at reading it again. She needed this book. It had the key to her brother’s Daemon. A possible means to answer the questions that had been plaguing her since Charles’s death. 

The archivist was turning the bend. She would be there any second now. 

Jughead was right. They needed a distraction, and she knew what it needed to be--it was the one thing she had been wanting to do all day, and now was the perfect opportunity to give into her impulse. 

She needed only one excuse and this would be it. 

Summoning her courage, she stepped into Jughead’s space and promptly, thoroughly, pressed her lips to his. 

******************

Betty’s petal soft lips were touching his, her breath warm and close. No space existed between their bodies, and every panicked thought that occupied his mind only seconds before melted away. 

She smelled so good. A scent that had been driving him mad since she stepped out of the locker rooms to sojourn to the library. Her existence now permeated all of his senses. 

He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his, and it spread heat throughout his body. They fit in this small space that they were occupying at the same time. 

The slow shift of her mouth lit something within him, and his hand rose to the back of her neck unbidden, holding her so he could press them even more closely together. He could feel an oncoming tidal wave of desire, tempered only by the gentle motion of her lips. She breathed, like a sigh, and he was getting lost in the wind of it. 

Their lips moved in an increasing tandem, a gentle exchange of warmth that was gaining heat at each brush. 

The featherlike touch of her fingertips along his jaw shattered all reasonable thought, and when she opened her mouth, he dared to taste what she offered. Desire blazed, and it tempted him to take more. He wanted more, but an audible gasp cut through the haze, followed by an angry, “What do you think you are doing?” 

Betty pushed herself away--rather dramatically, he thought, but his senses, so gone on her only seconds before, was fast crashing back to reality, and it twisted his emotions with surprising force, like a punch to the gut.

He was being reminded, maybe by Elemiah, maybe by his wits-- _ this  _ was all a distraction. A ploy. That was all this was. 

_ “This  _ is a place for  _ learning and study!”  _ hissed the archivist in a quiet yell, mastered, perhaps, from years of reprimanding errant library behavior such as theirs. “It was not made for such scandalous on-goings! Leave at once! Have you no respect for this facility?”

Jughead was, truthfully, at a loss for words, but Betty was muttering apologies as she pulled him with her, hastily making her way across the walkways as the archivist hounded them to remove themselves from her sacred institution. 

He hastened after Betty, marvelling at how nobody had noticed that he had illicitly taken with him library property. In the archivist’s anger and haste to eject them from the premises, she hadn’t given them a second look, even after the head archivist rose at the sound of her angry tirade, even as she pushed them through the archive doors and slammed it soundly in their faces. 

As they spilled into the library proper, Betty released a breath, almost in conclusion. “Well! That was effective!”

Effective indeed. “I--I still have a book in my--”

“Yes!” she gasped, resuming their hasty exit. This time, nobody paid them any mind, and as quickly as they were ushered out of the archives, they were out of the library and back in the open hallways of Guild, teeming with busy noise and activity. 

They made quick work of passing through the halls and through the turnstiles. When they were out of the building, Betty turned to him, determination alight in her gaze. 

“We’ve done it. We’ve got it. And now we just have to get Charles’s Daemon.”

She was talking about a book, about how they would use it to pursue their newest goal, but as the light of the waning day hit the gold upon her crown, and the color of her dress deepened the green of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks gave him more than a fleeting pleasure and he could already hear the wisened voice of Elemiah echoing in his head. 

_ Oh, Forsythe, she’d gone and done it, indeed. _


	11. A Different Man

> “Last week, mother brought me to Stonewall Academy. She told me that if I wished to continue on the path Charles set me on, I must first attend this school, then I must graduate from it and I must do so at the top of my class. This morning, I took an exam to test my fitness and ability to be admitted into this hallowed institution, and because Charles taught us well, it was the easiest exam I have ever had to pass. 
> 
> “Gaining admittance into Stonewall was never my worry. It is the notion of existing within its walls that troubles me at night. 
> 
> “As I walked through its halls and observed a professor conduct his class, I could not help but notice the privilege and entitlement of its students. I could see, without much need of investigation, that every single one of them believed they deserved to be there, while I could not help but think myself a fraud. 
> 
> “It reminded me of the parties we were made to attend, where Charles had to buy me a suit and where I had to pretend I belonged, except where a party in Riverdale would only last a few hours, my time in Stonewall would last for weeks and weeks. I do not think I can last so long.” _~Jughead Jones, Letters to Betty Cooper, October 12, 1869_
> 
> ******
> 
> “Last night, as a prank, my classmates trapped me in a Daemon-proof coffin. It was, they explained, tradition to do so for the newest student of the school each Hallowmas eve. The honor, more usually, was bestowed upon some poor freshman, but since I was admitted into Stonewall weeks late, the burden was, unwittingly, placed upon me. 
> 
> “There were two things I realized as I tried to calm the panic that threatened to overwhelm me within that enclosed space. The first was that I hated Stonewall and everything it represented. The second was that if I was to survive my time within its cruel walls, not only did I have to be better than them, I had to believe it, because that was how they all existed in this place. That was how they were raised to exist in this place. They didn’t doubt for a second that the very air they breathed, the very floor that carried their feet, the very stones that built this institution came into being for them, and only them. And if I am to be like these entitled fops, I must think like them, and for me to accomplish that, I must take everything that Charles taught me and leave the taint of the Southside behind. 
> 
> “I know how this must make you feel. You always told me that the Southside was a part of me. That it was what gave me the instinct to survive. You told me it is what made me strong and that I should never be ashamed of where I came from.
> 
> “I wish to make it clear that the Southside did not make me strong. It made me tough. It hardened me the way calluses harden skin. My strength comes from what Charles made of me, what _ you _made of me, and I keep that strength close to my heart. My strength has nothing to do with the Southside, so that part of me, I may shed like a skin. After all, that is what I’m told actual serpents do.
> 
> “I emerged from that coffin a different man, and I pray that this decision I make does not make you ashamed of me.” _~Jughead Jones, Letters to Betty Cooper, November 1, 1869_
> 
> *******

When they left the library and emerged from Guildsman Hall, Jughead had looked upon Betty and realized that two things were true:

One, that he had been lying to himself since the day he went back to Riverdale to see her, and two, that he was utterly and completely beyond his depth. 

He did not know what to say and he wasn’t sure if he knew what to do, either. 

Betty had swiftly and perhaps even indelicately taken the book back from him, slipping it from beneath his coat vest and immediately flipping it open as she led them to one of the many benches situated throughout the plaza.

She laid the book on her lap and read out loud some of the passages, speaking to him as if he actually had the wits to respond, when truly all he could do was stare at her face, watch her lips move, and note the way her eyes were alight with determination. 

She had always been this way. He had always thought fondly of her for being so, but he had never, until now, realized that everything he missed about her was everything he _ loved _about her, and that, he believed, was now the problem. 

He had secrets. 

There were things about him that he could not begin to tell her, how his arrogance had gotten Trevor killed, and how his guilt had driven him to an addiction that his parents--his mother—buried with her money and influence. 

His associations with opium dens and enablers, while never coming to the light, would haunt him to his dying days, and _ now, _ because he _ was _an addict, he would be more a danger to her than he ever was with Trevor. 

She was speaking still—talking about the book they just stole. She had already moved on from the kiss while he was drowning in this tidal wave of realizations. 

“Juggie?” 

“Yes?”

“You are looking at me a certain way.”

Was he? He must be. He felt he was at an impasse. It was possible, he realized, to care for someone so much that you fear you would become an affliction rather than a remedy. 

And how does this affect their lives as Daemon Bound? Did he not decide that the Daemon Bound were better with boundaries? 

But no. He hadn’t quite decided. He had been too afraid, he realized, to put a seal on it. Too afraid to lose what he might want. 

This was his fault. He had dallied because he thought everything was in order, but now his hubris and selfishness had made a mess of things in his head. His mind was in disarray and his chest felt tight with uncertainty.

But he needed to respond, to be in this moment, because her mind seemed to be on anything but the kiss.

“Do you know where Charles’s Daemon is being stored?” he asked. 

How he managed to pull that completely reasonable question out of his hat, he did not know.

She paused, and she shot him an imploring look, as if he had kicked a kitten, and he hated himself for it. “No, but you can find out, can’t you? You have friends in the Guild. Guildswoman Burble spoke of the Room of Realms and that appears to be in the jurisdiction of the Guild, and she did say she could make a request for it, so she or the people she knows have some access to it.” 

Jughead pushed back the emotions that stirred chaos in his mind and thought hard. She was right. The Room of Realms did fall in the Guild’s jurisdiction. That the Guildswoman said she could request it was a clue that the vessel holding Charles’s Daemon would be in reach. He also knew that it was around this time of the year that the Room of Realms was activated to release the souls, so the opening of the gates would be soon, if it hadn’t been done already. 

The Guild was a bureaucracy and as far as friends went, he did not have enough to make his way through the intricacies of its tape, but he knew the one person who would be perfectly suited to this task. “Father can find out. Father will do this for Charles. For his son.”

Betty’s eyes went liquid and Jughead could not bear it. “Oh, Betts.” He swept the tears from her cheek with his thumb, while he took his handkerchief out from beneath his coat and placed it in her hands. 

She thanked him softly and dabbed her eyes. “I apologize. I thought I was better about Charles. That I could talk about him without falling apart. But knowing that there is a part of him still that exists, that we can hold in our hands, I am suddenly terrified that we may lose it forever.” She looked up at him, her eyes filling anew. “What if we lose it, Jug? What if they already sent it through the gates and--”

He shushed her, holding her face between his hands. “We will find out, and one way or another, you are wrong about what exists of him, still. With or without his Daemon, you and me--we are both a part of him. What we learned from him and whatever other legacy he left behind--Charles is here,” he tapped her temple, then he tapped his. “And here. Do you understand?” 

Her lip trembled, but she nodded, and she sank into him, expelling this renewed grief within the embrace of his arms. 

His eyes closed for a moment, feeling his own grief well-up in his chest, but she had been so strong for him in the past about Charles. It was his turn to be strong for her.

He sent her home shortly thereafter, telling her that he had to stay awhile if they wished to find out more about Charles’s Daemon. 

She had looked at him right before she stepped into the carriage, her cheeks growing red like flames. “I think I might owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“What I did at the archives, I should have asked you, first. It was not respectful of me.”

It surprised him—that she felt the need to apologize at all, but in circumspect, he had not given her a reason to think otherwise. He had said nothing of the feelings her kiss invoked. He had held the lid on his emotions firmly shut and she had every reason to assume that he wanted to forget about it.

He shook his head and touched her arm to quiet her. “I had many thoughts about it, but that was not one of them. Betts--” He realized, suddenly, that Moose was sitting in the drivers’ seat and that he would hear everything, yet again. This was not a conversation that he wanted Moose to overhear. “I will see you at home.”

The gentle brush of his thumb upon her arm was, he realized, arguably inappropriate, but before she opened the proverbial box of Pandora, he had thought them blissfully exempt from the usual rules between men and women who were not related. Now he realized that they were not exempt. They very much crossed boundaries, but they liked it and they were very good at not caring about what other people thought. 

When the autocarriage left with her, he focused on his next task.

He went straight to his father’s office, keeping his facts straightforward but limited. He told his father that a reliable source told them that Charles’s Daemon was possibly in Guild custody, that it could have possibly been sent through the gates already. 

Jughead did not hold back invoking FP’s fatherly obligations, pressing upon him the importance of this last duty to Charles. 

“He was your son,” Jughead said. “He never asked anything from you, except for you to let him take me into his home, to be taught by him, to be raised by him. He took me out of your hands when you could not take care of me. The least you can do is find out where his Daemon is being held and if at all possible, retrieve it.”

FP did not argue about his obligations to Charles. “And what if it had already been sent through the gates?”

“Then his Daemon is lost to us all. But if it isn’t--father, this means a lot to me. To Betty. That Daemon should have either gone to her or to me. It doesn’t matter to whom, but it is our right to have that opportunity to inherit that Daemon.”

FP nodded, then. “I will find out, and if it is still available, I will do everything in my power to get it.”

“Thank you.” 

Jughead was just about to leave his father’s office when FP said, “Did you and Betty get in trouble at the library? I received a missive from the archivist telling me to curb my son‘s impulses. He said that you defiled the sanctity of his archives and that you so callously risked a scandal.”

Jughead had never felt so mortified in his life. “It is not what you think.”

FP waved his words away. “I am not thinking it, believe me. If you do not wish to drive me back to drink, I do not want the details of it. Only that if it is at all possible for you to restrain yourselves until you can get to a more private setting--”

“But--”

“You could not wait until you are home? You live together, for God’s sake. Jughead, think of Betty’s reputation!”

He would die before he told his father that it had all been Betty’s doing, at least at the start of it, but FP did not need to know any of that. “You are right. I should have been more responsible. It will never happen again. In the library. I swear. I swear! May I go?”

FP flicked his fingers in a sweeping motion towards the door and Jughead shot out of there with lightning swiftness. 

The last thing he wanted was for his father to get in their business, and heaven forbid, tell Alice. 

As he made his way out, he passed the department’s announcement board, and there, pinned to the cork, were the betting odds for recruits. A few of the names had already gotten crossed off, having failed the last two trials, but Betty’s name remained on the list, and hers was decorated with drawn hearts and other expressions of admiration. The language was mostly puerile, and some bordered on obscene, but there was one scribble that caught his attention. An arrow had been drawn to point at Betty’s name and at the end of it was the word “DIBS! --BWW”

_ Brett. _

Jughead was overcome with outrage. He ripped the paper off the cork and stormed out of his father’s department. 

_ Dibs! _

Like a thing Brett called _ dibs _on Betty. Who gave him the right? Who did he think he was?

Men were such savages, and truly, what did Betty have to do to prove her worth? That she was better than everyone else in this place, where she deserved to be treated like an equal and not some object for sport?

_ What shall you do? _

He had no time for Elemiah right now. 

In the recesses of his memories, he remembered how Brett had mentioned he was putting in a request to stand as Senior for partner trials. This meant that he would serve as mentor and observer to a pair of recruits, partnered to go on an actual mission. That Brett would write “DIBS!” directed at Betty’s name made Jughead turn right around and go straight towards Cheryl’s office. 

He would be damned if he let Brett Weston Wallis get his slimy hands on Betty’s future, or whatever else Brett wanted to get his hands on with regard to her. 

He knew what he needed to do. If he wished to protect her from Brett, he had to be Senior Peace Dealer for Betty and whomever her partner may be. And it wasn’t just that Brett was a sorry excuse for a human being. As Betty’s Senior, Jughead could fully protect her career _ and _her well being. They were Daemon Bound. Nobody can protect her like he can. 

This late in the day, he was able to secure a moment with Cheryl in her office, and when he was seated across from her at her desk, he said, “I want to be Betty’s Senior for partner trials.”

Cheryl’s eyebrow arched. “You mean… Betty and her partner’s Senior, right?”

He wondered what was so complicated about his request. “Of course. Betty and her assigned partner’s.”

“Do you know whom I’ve decided to partner her with?”

He didn’t, but it did not matter at this point. “How is that relevant to my request?”

Cheryl shrugged. “Well, as a Senior at partner trials, you will be tasked with evaluating _ both _candidates. I just feel like you might be… less objective with some of the candidates, is all I’m thinking.”

Jughead’s jaw tightened. “Who are you partnering Betty with, then?” 

Cheryl bit the insides of her cheek, perhaps determining whether she was willing to give him that information, but she appeared to relent. “I have decided that it would be Mantle. He will make Betty shine.”

Jughead could only purse his lips to buy a few seconds to compose himself. “Well, are you going to grant my request to be the Senior or not? I think Brett Weston Wallis has put in a request for Betty and her partner and I refuse to let that cretin anywhere near her.”

Cheryl frowned. “I don’t have to grant your request, Jones. I understand your hatred of Wallis is justified, but it isn’t just him, I’d wager. It’s Mantle, too. I know that his intentions for Betty makes you feel uneasy. He is a comely lad and Betty appears to like his company, but--”

Well, now she’d gone and infuriated him. “If you do not grant my request, I will tell Toni of the time you sent Josie McCoy a pig’s heart.”

Cheryl scoffed. “She _ knows _of that.”

“Oh, does she? Well, perhaps I should tell Josie McCoy.”

At that, Cheryl’s face reddened to match her hair. “I can’t believe you are willing to throw such a valuable piece of information away just so you can thwart Mantle’s chances of gaining Betty’s affections! At this level, you should just tell her how you feel, you blithering fool!”

Jughead’s Southside instinct kicked in. He did not need Cheryl telling him what to do about this, either. “Write me in as Betty and Mantle’s Senior, otherwise Ms. McCoy will hear from me. As for my relationship with Betty, it is none of your business, so I advise you to stop giving your opinion on that regard.”

“Hmph. And they call women _ dramatic. _Be gone with you, Jones. I’ll play, if only to entertain myself. I haven’t seen two grown men fight over a woman in ages. It is always riveting.’

Jughead shot her a glare as he stood to leave. He thanked her, anyway. It was only decent. 

He felt much better now, knowing that Betty would not have to deal with the likes of Brett Weston Wallis, nor can Mantle ruin things by casting her lovelorn looks while they actually had spirits to catch. 

_ Absolutely no one can protect her like I can. _

Elemiah stirred, perhaps uneasily. _ Careful, Forsythe. Your Southside is showing. _

_ Shut it. I know what I’m doing. _

**********

He did not know what he was doing. 

At home, he found Betty in Jellybean’s laboratory, watching an experiment unfold. The brightening of her face at the sight of him softened his heart to distraction, and as Jellybean droned on about her theories on Thermodynamics and the anecdotal _ fun _she had with that oddball team of scientists she worked with in her spare time, Jughead suddenly found himself scrambling to keep together the certainties he thought he had, because they were crumbling.

When he looked up from his thoughts, he realized that Betty had been watching him.

The arch of her eyebrow asked what was wrong. Or maybe she was asking something else. It was difficult when she did not broadcast her thoughts. 

He sighed, knowing that bridging their thoughts wouldn’t make things any easier right now. 

Sometime soon, they were called to dinner, and they spent an impossible amount of time just listening to Gladys and FP speak.

As the topic was Betty’s trials, it was easier for Jughead to engage, but he wondered how he might make use of their time when dinner was over. He wondered how he wished to approach this. 

He hadn’t stopped thinking of Betty since he went to her in Riverdale and he had felt everything from worry to affection to pure joy. There was admiration, too.

_ And jealousy. Do not forget that. _

He did not argue with Elemiah this time. 

Oh, what had that kiss wrought?

When, after dinner, the family retired to their rooms, Betty told him she was going to read the book by the receiving room fire, and she asked him if he would like to join her.

He did not know if he was ready, but he said yes. 

Alone with her as they sat by the fire, his earlier panic began to fall into perspective, starting with Cheryl and her unrelenting opinion on his earlier behavior. 

He had told himself that he wanted to be the Senior to Betty’s partner trials because it would give him the opportunity to both advance her and protect her from the dangers of predatory men and the job itself. They were Daemon Bound and his instincts were focused on her. With him, she was completely safe. 

But even he knew he was lying to himself. Betty didn’t need his protection. What he was doing was putting a wall between her and any perceived threat. Whether it was the ill-intentioned Bretts of the world or the good-intentioned Reggies, this was not about her safety. 

Reggie was objectively good looking, arguably good at Peace Dealing, and most noticeably smitten by Betty Cooper. So it was no stretch of the imagination that his jealousy had reared even harder than his outrage for Brett’s disrespect.

He realized, with a growing sense of panic, that this was beyond the embarrassment of acting like a fool. This was beyond jealousy and inappropriate behavior. If this was how he acted with a kiss that wasn’t even meant to be real, what havoc could he wreak if he forgot to check himself? This--this was addiction, or the beginnings of it. 

He knew it because he’d fought this beast before, and when it consumed him, he became it. And the stakes were even higher for them because they were Daemon Bound. This was the path to ruin. 

The Daemon Bound worked best with boundaries. 

“Juggie, look at this.” Betty had the book open in her lap, pointing to one to one of the sigils entitled “To stand ho timeth”. “We can freeze time--or rather freeze a section of it, within a certain proximity. ‘_ Shouldst thee findeth difficulty in enwheeling the chaos yond surrounds thee, thy oth'r and thyself may holdeth hostage to timeth and space, within closeth proximity. This is most useful at which hour apprehending skittish spirits and Lock'd alike.’ _It sounds incredible, but look how simple it is! It is like the binding spell we cast on Christine, but this will encompass the freezing of everything--Locked, spirits, and even things in motion! We should master this! We should--” She paused, perhaps seeing the look of uncertainty on his face. “What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t possibly. He wasn’t ready. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

He could hear her soft gasp and saw the blush spread across her cheeks, and when she did not look away, he knew that the kiss was not all a ploy to either of them. 

“You are thinking about the library,” she breathed. 

Was it their connection that clued her in? Or was it just instinct on her part. She was so attuned to it. He did not know what to say. How to handle this, but he could feel his emotions rushing to the surface, the lies were fading into the backdrop of his thoughts. 

He loved her. He needed her, and whether his love was interspersing with his addiction was a hazard that existed, but it felt secondary at the moment. Not while he stared into her eyes, not while she was this close. He needed to tell her his truth. 

He cupped her face, his worry knitting his brow. “I have not stopped thinking about you since--” _ Riverdale _ “... we left the archives.”

It should have been a good thing, to tell someone that they were in your thoughts, but even Betty sensed his hesitation. “But?”

He took her hands and held them between his, lowering his lips upon her knuckles. He placed a soft kiss against her skin, then he rested his cheek lightly upon them, his head settling on her lap. It felt preposterous, to be the one to ask for more time. He was the older one. He was the more experienced one, but he was more afraid than she. 

He was scared of telling her everything. He was scared of what his feelings might lead to. He was afraid of what he could become and what he could turn them into. 

His sigh carried, and he closed his eyes when he felt her kiss on the top of his head. Her hand came up to comb her fingers gently through his hair, and he realized that he never felt more complete and content than when he was with her. 

He was her best friend. She was still his best friend, but her place in his heart had started to shift the moment he laid his eyes upon her in Riverdale. 

“Betts,” he began, looking up to meet her gaze. She was so beautiful. So full of life, even knowing her sorrows and burdens. He was proud of her strength, even while keeping her safe in her moments of vulnerability. “I love you. With all my heart, I do, but I need time. We both do.”

He could see the disappointment in her face. The look of hurt in her eyes, and he hated that he was so inadequate, that he could not make her happy. “I’ve waited six years to hear you tell me that you love me, and now you are saying that you don’t think your love is enough?”

“I need to make myself whole, so that we can be strong enough to not let it destroy us.”

She looked at their combined hands and shook her head. “What does that mean? I know that we read about the Daemon Bound being explosive and destructive, when they let the passion of their bonds take them, but we also read of those who have flourished because they erected boundaries, but you and I--don’t you think we can find that happy medium?” She looked up to meet his gaze. “It’s _ us _. We have always been stronger together.”

He nodded. “I know, but I need to make sure that _ my _love isn’t destructive.”

He could see the confusion in her eyes but he simply wasn’t strong enough to reveal his past to her. The beast inside him needed taming, but the shame of having it at all was too great. He could not bear for Betty to see him so weak. 

“I don’t know if I am capable of boundaries, Betty,” he began. “The way I am right now, letting myself love you would be an all-consuming passion. I could feel myself becoming overly vigilant and jealous. _ I _need to find my happy medium because I love you so much. It is beyond overwhelming. You have no idea how deeply I feel for you.”

Her eyes softened, her hands rising to cup his face. He closed his eyes and turned his lips, daring to kiss the base of her palm. “Juggie, I can help. Don’t you want to be together?”

The smell of her perfume filled him with longing and he knew in his heart that he was incapable of restraint. “Right now, it feels impossible to resist you. I want to be with you, Betty, but for this to work, we both need to go slowly. Cautiously.”

Betty made a sound of discontent as she loosened the tie from his neck. It felt intimate, and domestic. “And what does that mean, proceeding slowly? No kissing, perhaps?”

He took a deep breath, it was not what he wanted. “Maybe. I--I don’t know.” Who was he trying to deceive?

Her eyes softened, sensing his confusion. “No touching? Would I not be allowed to hold your hand anymore? Link our arms? We’ve always been comfortable about that.”

“It is different now,” he said, his eyes pleading for understanding. He needed direction. He needed conviction, but he realized that when it came to her, he was ready to follow her to the ends of the earth. “Has been different since we reunited in Riverdale.”

She did not argue. She settled into silence for a moment, biting her lower lip. “But what if I were to hold your hand like this?” She threaded their fingers. “And what if I kissed you a certain way?” She leaned in, but paused. “May I?” 

He nodded, unable to tell her no, because he wanted this, even when his worries warned him that the slightest touch from her was too much. 

Her lips brushed his with gentle pressure, and he held still, telling himself this was good. This was careful enough. If he did not move, they could keep it simple. Sweet. Perhaps even a little chaste. 

But Betty, _ oh Betty, _she made a soft sound on the back of her throat, and his restraint dissolved instantly. He breathed her in and his arms dragged her onto his lap. He welcomed the gentle swipe of her tongue against his lips with the ravenous tasting of his. There was nothing sweet or chaste about this kiss, and his reason scattered to the wind as her fingers prompted his chin to tilt so that she could explore the many delectable ways their mouths could be connected. 

When her fingers combed through his hair, he made a rather unholy sound and realized it was encouragement. When he felt the buttons of his collar loosen, he was already forgetting everything he said to her about proceeding with caution, but they heard footsteps upon the stairway, and gasping, Betty immediately had to remove herself from him and take her previous seat back, plopping the book right back onto her lap. 

Jughead hadn’t the wits to be so precise. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to steady his breathing as he stared into the fire, waiting for the inevitable appearance of his father. He knew those footsteps, and a quick glance at the clock told him that it was time for his mother’s calming tea, which she had likely asked FP to fetch for her. 

As FP reached the foot of the stairs, he passed by the receiving room and saw them. “Are you still up? Isn’t it partner trials tomorrow, Betty? You should get some rest.”

“I will be up shortly, Mr. Jones,” Betty said in a perfectly normal and pleasant tone. 

Jughead did not know if he could be as composed. He looked up at his father and knew immediately by FP’s expression that he had failed, and without him having to say anything, FP rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Go to sleep, boy.”

When he was gone, Jughead shot Betty a despairing look. “I am incapable of restraint.”

Betty did have the decency to look slightly chagrined, though she grinned as she threaded her fingers with guileless innocence through the ends of her hair. “It was lovely, Juggie. I wish for more of that.”

What was he to do with himself? He was serious about his concerns, but how did he expect her to understand the gravity of it when he himself could not discipline his desires? More than that, how could he ask her to hold back when he was not being completely honest with her about his past? 

“Perhaps,” he said, “that we should both turn in for the night. Father is right. Partner trials are tomorrow.” 

She scoffed softly, but did not argue. “May I give you a kiss goodnight?”

He wished he weren’t so undeserving of her. He leaned towards her and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then he bent over her hands to press his kiss to her knuckles. When he looked up, he found that she was watching him with such affection that his heart felt full. “Good night, my love. I shall see you in the morning.”

She ran her fingers along his jaw as she rose from her seat and his gaze followed hers. 

He watched her leave, and he wondered when he became this person, the one who worried that love could be their undoing.

Elemiah shifted, his spectral existence briefly nudging his.

_ Please, Forsythe. You aren’t that person at all. _

**********

He clipped his cufflinks and straightened his tie, combed back his hair and picked up his hat, and when he peered into the glass for a final inspection, he wondered how it was possible that he looked so put together when his mind was in chaos and his stomach was in knots. 

He had thought, perhaps foolishly, that when it came to Betty Cooper, he knew his place in the world. He had promised Charles that he would protect her and see to her happiness, and he was sure--he was certain that he was doing exactly what Charles would have wanted him to do. 

He should have known. He should have remembered that he only ever had a semblance of control. People and circumstance had a way of diverting things, turning things one way or another, until the reigns had been completely wrestled from his grasp. 

Betty kissed him yesterday, and that, perhaps, was beyond his control, but then the crux of the matter was that he kissed her back. 

He kissed her back and he told her he loved her. Now nothing was the same. 

Absolutely nothing. 

***************

She dressed the same and to everyone else, she may look the same, but he most certainly looked upon her with more than his usual fondness and admiration. 

He found that having opened the floodgates of his feelings, he was far more distracted by her than he cared to admit. The details of her captivated him, from the perfect braids in her upswept hair to her pink-pressed lips. Did she ever look this good in this dress? Of course she did. And did that jaunty hat ever look so charming? 

_ It did. It always did. _

As they converged at the top of the stairs, she feathered the back of her hand lightly upon his cheek, and all he could do to keep from sweeping her into his arms and kissing her breathless was to take the same hand while pressing his lips to the back of it. 

When he locked eyes with her, he said, “Good morning.”

She smiled, tiptoeing to give him a kiss on the cheek. Weak of will that he was, he angled his chin just slightly so that her kiss would land on his lips. It was a soft peck, tender and sweet, but it spread a grin on her face and he looked upon his handiwork with both satisfaction and longing. 

She adjusted his tie, and he remembered that there was absolutely nothing misplaced about it, but he welcomed any excuse she may conjure to touch him. “You look handsome, Jughead. You always do, but I did not think it appropriate to tell you then.”

His yearning for her reared and words tumbled out of his lips unbidden. “I am breathless at the sight of you and you are constantly in my thoughts. Remember that for when we are working at the Guild this afternoon, where we must act professional at all times.” 

She laughed softly, stepping closer within his space but clasping her hands behind her. She tilted her chin up to look at him. “May I stand like this?”

He copied her stance, daring to get close and linking his hands behind him, as well. He looked down at her upturned face and pretended to give it a quick thought, then he shook his head. “This does not feel professional,” he whispered. 

She grinned and bit her lip. “Hmm. It better not. My thoughts right now are scandalously unprofessional.”

“Stop,” he pleaded, in perhaps the weakest protest in his life. “You must, for I can’t.”

She giggled. “Perhaps if you say _ something _professional.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“Try, for me?”

He took a deep breath to steady the rapid beating of his heart. “Are you ready for your trials today, Ms. Cooper?”

She feathered the tip of her nose against his chin. “Very ready. I have completely armed myself, in all the ways that you might have imagined, all leather straps and shiny buckles. Knives, mostly. A revolver or two. Do you still have your switchblade? Can you still handle it the way you used to? I _ so _ love to watch you use your _ hands. _”

He was not prepared.

Her words pooled relentless desire through him. He caught her in his arms and took that kiss. So urgent was his need. The parting of her lips to let him taste sent his senses reeling, but even as he began to lose himself to this tide, the sound of footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, alerted him to his recklessness. 

He pulled away, taking a deep, steadying breath to confront the source of their interruption. 

It was Kevin, and he stared up at them with an impassive frown. “Breakfast is ready, if you’re interested, that is.”

Just how much did he see? Jughead could not judge by the complete lack of expression on Kevin’s face. 

“We are,” Betty managed to say, catching her breath as she descended the steps. “Thank you, Kevin. Jughead I… shall see you downstairs.”

Kevin nodded and let her pass, watching her descend and turning the corner. He turned to Jughead, as if to wait for a response. 

Jughead gathered his thoughts. “Did you--”

“I saw everything. But I am not here to shame. Or tattle. I merely hope to have you at the breakfast table while the bread is warm.”

Jughead nodded, straightening his suit. “If you can keep this from Moose--”

“Oh, he already knows. The tension, he says, is unbearable. He’s been complaining about it for days.”

“Right.”

“Breakfast, Jughead.” At that, Kevin turned and led the way. There wasn’t much left for Jughead to say, so he followed without a word. 

Breakfast was mainly uneventful, though Gladys did bring up Veronica’s birthday soiree and how it was the main event of the season. 

“Everyone of import or interest, or both, is invited,” Gladys said, spreading jam on her toast. She waved her knife in Jughead’s direction. “You are always complaining about how parties are filled with foolish people, so you can’t claim that for this one, Jughead. There will be people there who just might be good enough for you.”

Jughead did not miss Gladys’ sarcasm, and he opened his mouth to say something just as sardonic when Betty tapped his foot with hers under the table, perhaps to remind him to be a little less grumpy. “If there is good food, it ought to be tolerable.”

FP laughed, raising his cup of coffee like a cheer. 

“I am just grateful Veronica invited my intrepid team of thermodynamic swots,” Jellybean said as she separated her scrambled eggs and ham into neat sections on her plate. “When I told her we sought funding for our research, she immediately jumped at the notion of sponsoring our efforts. She will be introducing us to many wealthy people as a first step. Apparently, they are just finding ways to spend their money.”

“I thought we weren’t allowed to speak of money at breakfast,” Jughead said, popping a grape into his mouth. He nodded at his mother. “It’s indelicate. Your words.”

“Mother speaks of money at breakfast, midday, or dinner with no reservation,” Betty grumbled, aside. 

Gladys didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the rebuke. She, in fact, looked amused by her son’s sass. “We’re Joneses. We don’t mind a bit of roughness here or there.” She nudged FP. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

FP gave a mildly embarrassed grin.

Jughead could only wish for the floor to swallow him. He supposed he got what he deserved, provoking his mother like so. At least Betty found it entertaining, judging by the grin she was valiantly trying to stifle. 

Jellybean seemed unbothered by the verbal dueling. “Dr. Curdle and Dr. Doiley are spastic with nerves, but Melody is thrilled. She was always the most social one of the team and will make an appropriate representative for our group. I am too strange to be introduced first and Curdle and Doiley are just disasters.”

Gladys scoffed softly, perhaps at everything her daughter said. “I don’t believe Ms. Lodge would care either way. She seeks legitimacy in intellectual pursuits to remove herself from her family’s murky past.” 

“Aren’t we all?” FP asked. 

Gladys dealt FP a menacing glare before looking at Betty. “New Kin is a city of second chances. You could fail or be mediocre anywhere else, but if you make it in New Kin, it will be as if you’ve been successful all your life. That is what the likes of Ms. Lodge takes full advantage of. You should, too. We all did.”

Jughead could feel his hackles rising at his mother’s razor edge. “Betty was never a failure nor was she ever mediocre.”

“I didn't mean to imply that,” said Gladys, feigning regret. “Betty, surely you understood.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Jones.” 

Gladys seemed pleased that Betty wasn’t encouraging his outrage, and as soon as Gladys looked away, he felt the gentle press of her hand on his arm. He didn’t like it when his mother threw knives and expected everyone to dodge them. Betty did not have to put up with it like the rest of them. 

When breakfast concluded, they all left for work, with FP joining them while Jellybean joined her mother. 

Jughead noted how, in the autocarriage, Betty chose the seat farthest from him. It was just as well. Having her so close would surely give them away. He didn’t quite know how a ride in the semi-private carriage with Betty would be, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to find out just yet. He was certain that he wasn’t strong enough to resist that physical need to be intimate in such an enclosed space. 

“I looked into that file, son,” FP said, cutting through his thoughts. “The one you asked me about last night.”

Jughead sat up straighter. “And?”

“I have a meeting with the Room of Realms Soul Steward. If any Daemons are in storage by authority of the Guild or the Imperium, he would know.”

“That was quick, father,” Jughead said. “I did not expect you would find a lead so soon.”

FP scoffed. “Money makes everything quicker. Steward Minetta is particularly responsive to it. How he got the job as the keeper of souls, I know not, but Mrs. Lodge recommended him, and so he was named Steward.”

Jughead exchanged looks with Betty. Sometimes he feared that Betty would grow disillusioned by this society, where her ideals about the importance of what they do becomes diminished by the graft, and possibly the corruption, that is slowly making itself known the longer she was among the Kin. 

When they arrived at Guildsman Hall, Reggie was waiting at the curb once more, and Jughead could only roll his eyes in exasperation. 

FP noticed and looked through the window to find out who was the object of Jughead’s disdain. “One of the recruits?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he waiting for?”

Jughead deferred from replying. FP will find out soon enough. 

As the carriage came to a stop, Jughead stepped out first. This time, Reggie was not put off by the sight of him. 

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” Reggie said. 

Jughead nodded. “Mantle.”

FP stepped out next before he extended his hand for Betty. Reggie’s eyes lit with renewed enthusiasm. 

_ You know how he feels. _

Jughead pressed his lips together. It was all he could do not to yell at himself for Elemiah’s well-placed bombs. 

Reggie tipped his hat at FP as he introduced himself and shook his hand. FP was much kinder than Jughead, giving Reggie the encouragement befitting a Guardian who took in new and enthusiastic recruits on a frequent basis. 

Jughead withdrew from the conversation momentarily, looking through the autocarriage window at Moose. “I’ve put in a request to stand as Senior for the partner trials, which means you may have to stand by me as my Logistician, as well. You don’t mind, do you?”

Moose shrugged. “It’s all the same to me, Jones. Is Mantle Ms. Cooper’s partner for trials?”

“Probably.”

“And you put in your request because of that, didn’t you?”

Sometimes it was infuriating that Moose knew him well enough to hit far too close to the mark. “That was not the reason.”

“Oh?”

“At first.”

Moose laughed, glancing briefly at Reggie, Betty, and FP talking several feet away. 

Jughead looked at them briefly, as well, and Betty turned to cast him a small smile before returning to her conversation. 

“Bah,” Moose said in a gently teasing tone. “Mantle is wasting his time. She has eyes for no one but you, Jones.”

That affirmation brought Jughead so much pleasure, he could barely contain it. He thought it useless to deny anything with Moose. “She could do better.”

“She could, but she must feel sorry for your stupid mug, and so here you are, rightfully whipped by someone far beyond your league. Take the egg, Jones, but do me one favor. _ Do not _get frisky in my carriage. I like to keep it clean back there.”

“Moose.”

He laughed and set the carriage into gear. Jughead stepped back, watching the carriage go. 

“Jughead,” FP called. 

When Jughead approached, FP transferred Betty’s linked arm into his. 

“I must go ahead,” FP explained. “But you stay with Betty and Mr. Mantle, over here. Maybe give them some tips for their trials today.”

Jughead felt the soft squeeze of Betty’s hand on his arm as she looked up at him with a gaze that could have had him buckling at the knees, were it not for his stronger need not to make a fool of himself in front of Reggie Mantle. 

He realized then that none of this went unnoticed by Reggie. “Partner trials aren’t for the faint of heart. It’s purpose isn’t just to determine your fitness as a collaborator. Its purpose is to show the recruits that this job isn’t all fun and games.”

Reggie frowned. “That isn’t what I heard.”

The corner of Jughead’s lip twitched, amused that this was how Reggie wished to challenge him. “You don’t believe me?”

This caught Reggie a little off guard and Betty nudged her elbow into his rib. 

“We’ll have to wait and see, Mantle. It’s partners. Anything can happen,” she said. 

Jughead nodded. “Indeed, anything can.”

***************

Betty could hardly focus on what Guardian Weatherbee was saying. 

She was pondering the state of her relationship with Jughead, and how they were to maneuver their way into this state of acknowledging their feelings for each other, but refraining from acting on them too much. 

She supposed this was how lovers normally conducted themselves, displaying none but appropriate behavior, restraining themselves when they weren’t alone, but to Jughead’s point, they were different. They were Daemon Bound, and she agreed that they had to understand how their passions played into that bond, but she had the distinct feeling that he was holding something back, that there was something he was not telling her. 

They had not even discussed whether they wanted to let other people know. Were they to keep their relationship a secret? Certainly, for professional reasons, it was wiser to separate their relationship with their work. They were adults. They were capable of establishing that wall while they were administering their duties, but did that mean telling no one how they felt for each other? Was she, for instance, supposed to entertain suitors for show? 

“Betty!”

Reggie’s voice cut through her thoughts and she had to refocus her attention to the class. “What? What is it?”

Reggie shook his head. “You looked like you were hundreds of miles away. I was just asking you--did you know partner trials have been extended to three missions?”

This was a surprise to Betty, and it appeared that was true for the other recruits, as well. 

“This is a new rule,” Guardian Weatherbee explained. “Only just established this year. It was determined that the most important trial of all was this portion of recruitment. It is what you would essentially be doing in your employment here, so it was important to extend partner trials. I do not wish to hear complaints. If you have them, take it up with the Primary Guildsman. He approved it.” 

As Guardian Weatherbee droned off, there was a muted quality to the reactions. While this seemed a drastic change, it was all the same to Betty. She’d been doing this job for years and these trials were merely a formality for her. 

She noticed, then, looking across the room, that their numbers _ had _diminished. She hadn’t even bothered looking at the Pass/Fail sheet the previous evening. She realized that a handful of recruits that were removed from the first round of fights were no longer there. Eversham, for instance, was not among them. 

She did feel a pang of guilt, having contributed to his demise. At least her second opponent managed to get through. She realized, however, that Elio was not there, either. This was, to her, shocking. Elio was a Stonewall boy. By Jughead’s statistics, none of the Stonewall candidates should have been removed. 

“Is Grande ill, you think?” Betty asked Reggie aside. 

Reggie arched an eyebrow. “Did you not look at the sheet last night? He failed. He will have to wait another six months to try again.”

“Because I knocked his tooth out?”

Reggie bit his lip, possibly to keep from laughing. “I think you got him mad enough to act like the entitled fool he is. I heard from Moore that he marched into Guardian Weatherbee’s office and said something. I think that was what got him kicked out this time around.”

Munroe, who was seated right behind her, heard their conversation and said, “All hearsay, you understand. I wasn’t in that office, but I saw Elio leave with Guardian Weatherbee after he dismissed us all yesterday.”

Archie leaned over to join the conversation as well. “Maybe we should ask St. Claire and Poutine. They’ve been throwing you dirty looks the entire time.”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Andrews?” Guardian Weatherbee asked from the podium. 

Archie mugged a look of complete innocence. “No problem, Guardian Weatherbee! We are all just very excited to find out who our partners are.”

Guardian Weatherbee dealt him a warning look before continuing in the rules of and regulations surrounding their next task. 

Betty sat pondering Elio’s demise when the Guardian finally announced that he had partner folders ready to be handed out. He gestured to the door, signaling whomever was beyond its threshold to come through. A line of gentlemen filed into the room, and amongst them Jughead. Most of the gentlemen wore the crest of the Guild on their lapels. They were all of them Peace Dealers. 

Guardian Weatherbee explained that each pair would be assigned a Senior, which would be indicated in the folders that were to be distributed in alphabetical order. 

When Betty fetched her folder, she shot Jughead a quick glance, and the small wink he gave her made her bite her lip to keep from grinning. She was barely in her seat and she was opening her folder. Sure enough, her Senior was Forsythe Pendleton Jones, III. Her partner would be Reggie. 

Reggie tapped her shoulder gently, smiling as he slid back into his seat beside her. “Partner?”

Betty nodded eagerly, glad that Cheryl chose to go with him. 

“Who is Forsythe Pendleton Jones, III?” he asked, reading the name from his folder. 

Betty arched her eyebrow and smirked, “Also known as FP Jones, Jr.” 

“Oh, that’s right. How obtuse of me.” The expression on his face was marked with mild disappointment. “I suppose it hardly matters, and really, he was top of his class at Stonewall, so I am in no position to complain.”

Betty deferred from asking why he seemed so unenthused. “Did you hope for someone else?”

“Not particularly.”

_ Just anyone but him. _

Sabathiel’s voice rang clear in her mind and it was interesting to Betty how she seemed like a completely different entity, when the Kin were told time and time again in books that Daemons were an extension of their human so long as they were bound to you, and therefore incapable of free thought. 

The last folder was handed out and Guardian Weatherbee instructed them to seek their partners so that their Seniors might find them.

As expected, Jughead approached them, a cigarette already bobbing from the corner of his lips. “Mantle. You seem so excited to see me. Don’t fall all over yourself jumping to say hello.”

Reggie frowned but stood to shake Jughead’s hand, as was customary of gentlemen. “Jones. This promises to be interesting.”

Jughead pretended to give it some thought. “Ms.Blossom has promised us interesting cases, yes, which frankly makes me uneasy. Betty, may I smoke?”

It was nice of him to ask when there were others to witness the proprieties. She tried to stifle her grin, but failed, as she said, “Only if you stand several feet away from me.”

He pretended to be offended. “How rude. Then I suppose I shall have to refrain from smoking, in the meantime.” He tossed the cigarette away in the nearby trash, smirking and perhaps waiting to see what she had to say about it. 

Betty tried not to be so obviously delighted by his teasing tone. They were in a professional setting and she did not wish to make a spectacle of them. 

“When shall we know what they are?” Reggie asked, clearly trying to pretend none of this flirting was occurring. 

Jughead seemed only mildly annoyed by Reggie’s disruptive, but perfectly reasonable question. “Walk with me to Ms. Blossom’s office. There are preliminaries, but she will send us on our way thereafter. After you, Betty.”

Betty did lead the way, knowing where Cheryl’s office was. Around them, the halls were teeming with personnel, working, talking, and walking. The energy was vibrant and Betty realized these were the peak hours. This was the first time she was in the thick of it. 

Peace Dealers that passed them by tipped their hats at her, before nodding at Jughead and Reggie. It was incredibly polite and cordial. 

When they reached Cheryl’s department, Jughead held the door open for her, and as she passed him, she did not miss the way he looked at her, at how his eyes caressed her face, and she wondered, again, why he was trying to hold back. She could give him time, but for how long did he expect them to function at half-measure? Perhaps she wasn’t thinking about this the way he wanted her to. His concerns about the bond being destructive were valid. She read the literature, but why was he so afraid that it would happen to them? There wasn’t ever a problem they couldn’t solve together. Why did he doubt that now?

Cheryl’s office door was open and one of her assistants waved for them to come in.

Cheryl was seated at her desk, smiling with that sharp, bright grin, like she was ready to take charge. “Sit, recruits. I’ve been haggling for primary missions you might enjoy. As you’ve been told, partner trials are now extended to three missions, and while most of the next few days will be spent learning the ins and outs of Peace Dealer bureaucracy, the primary missions I managed to secure will make those tedious hours at your desk worth your time. I managed to wrangle two day missions that I assure you are riveting--a whore house and a drug den. What do you think about that?”

Betty bit her lip, exchanging looks with Jughead as she took a seat. This was, as they say, right up her alley. He seemed impassive, however, sitting on the edge of an oak dresser pushed up against Cheryl’s wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, and while he may appear casual to most, Betty could see that there was something amiss in his gaze. His earlier flirty mood seemed to have evaporated back into his usual, scowling self. 

“Sounds exciting,” Reggie said. 

Cheryl looked at him like she thought him completely adorable. “Mr. Mantle. I suspect that the whore house will be delighted to receive you.”

“Ms. Blossom,” Jughead warned. 

She waved his warning away, but she did seem to temper her amusement of the whole thing. “Now let’s get to it.” She pulled sheets of paper from inside a file folder and distributed them to Betty and Reggie. “These are the guidelines Guardian Weatherbee spoke of today. You may refer to them at your leisure, but please do sign the waiver before you go.”

“Another waiver,” Betty remarked. “We’ve signed far too many of these. One would think the Guild is washing every speck of us from their hands.”

Jughead scoffed. “Oh, the Guild is terrified of liability. They would assume the risk for employees, for sure, but you will have limited claim to the Guild if you are killed as a recruit.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say limited,” Cheryl said in a silky tone. “It’s a generous package, and besides, this is merely standard procedure. You are with Jones. He will never let anything happen to you, Betty. He promised he wouldn’t get you killed either, Mantle.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” Reggie said, somewhat sarcastically. 

Jughead shot him a withering glare before transferring it to Cheryl.”Ms. Blossom, that is not nearly as funny as you thought it was.”

Cheryl grinned. “Oh? I thought you might like that. But know, Mr. Mantle, that I and the Guild will hold Jones fully responsible if anything does happen to you, and so it is imperative that Jones not make a batty-fang of the proceedings. I intend to secure his transfer to my department and I have been making it known that I wish to take him into my team. His performance will reflect on me, and I cannot have him fail if I wish to be promoted to higher office. Therefore, if either of you come home in a body bag, Jones might as well be in one, too.”

“I feel safer already,” Reggie chimed. 

Jughead dealt him a sardonic frown before fishing a cigarette from inside his coat. “Don’t listen to Ms. Blossom. Nothing will go wrong. I will make sure of it. You will both be safe, so long as you listen to me. Besides, neither of you are children. You are both intelligent adults--all of us are. We shouldn’t have a problem if we look out for one another.”

Cheryl nodded. “Inspiring, Jones. There’s that Southside gang leader quality my lovely Antoinette said you had.”

That was not lost on Reggie, who looked at Betty questioningly. Betty waved it away as if it were nothing, which it was. Jughead’s alternative path as leader to the Southside Serpents in Riverdale never came to fruition, but it definitely wasn’t an easy detour, according to Charles. Jughead had felt pressure to lead the gang countless times in the past, and it was only Charles who managed to steer him away from that life time and time again, until he and his father left Riverdale completely.

Betty thought Jughead would not want to discuss it, but to her surprise, Jughead leaned into it. “Oh, she was my biggest advocate. She didn’t think much of Francisco ‘Sweet Pea’ Lee. I almost walked the gauntlet on initiation night, but my mentor, Charles Cooper, brought the mutton-shunters down on us--broke up the event. Lost my chance at ever being the leader of the Southside Serpents. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that.”

Betty noted the disparaging nickname for police and knew that his Southside was certainly showing. 

Cheryl sighed and shook her head. “You are so much more interesting when you bring that Southside boy out to play, Jones. I know you will take my side on this, Betty, my dear.”

Betty could feel the blush rising up her neck, she could not deny it, but she knew that Jughead did what he had to do to survive his many lives--as the preferred Southside gang leader, the son of a high-ranking Guild official, as a Stonewall student aspiring for honors, and finally a Peace Dealer at the prestigious Guild of New Kin City. She was aware, thanks to his letters, of what he had to endure to get through these phases in his life. She craved that Southside flavor in him, but she also did not want to diminish his triumphs overcoming it. “He has layers, and they fascinate in various ways, Ms. Blossom”

“Such a lovely way of putting it, Betty,” Cheryl gushed. “You’ve such a sweet way about you! One would never think that you could submit men twice your size and dislocate joints with stunning efficiency. Now let us get to the task at hand.” She took out a box from beneath her desk and plopped it in front of them. “The Guild is supplying you with the tools of the trade today.”

Reggie straightened in his seat. “Tools? Like aural communicators and Guild issue goggles?”

Cheryl grinned. “Ah, enthusiasm! You are adorable. Yes, all of that and more--firearms, pointy things, things to hit with, clever gadgetry--everything you can fit onto your person.”

“I am already armed,” Betty said. What she told Jughead that morning was no empty tease. She was strapped and loaded where she could--her thigh, her ankle, beneath the sleeves of coat, the pin in her hat--she was quite prepared for this trial. 

Cheryl took it in stride. “Well, you can keep yours in addition to what we give you.”

Reggie looked at her in surprise. “Wait, you’re armed? Now?”

She looked at him askance. “Aren’t you?”

“Where are you keeping--? Nevermind.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Cheryl teased. 

Reggie visibly reddened and opened his mouth to say something, but Jughead scowled at him and stared him into silence.

After Reggie’s lips clamped shut, Jughead nodded in her direction. 

“Betty has a tendency to attract trouble,” Jughead said in a tone that was far too amused than was appropriate. “She arms herself out of necessity.”

“Yes, well,” Cheryl said, laying the equipment out on her table. “It seems like trouble isn’t the only thing she can attract.” 

Betty tried to act as if she hadn’t noticed the way Jughead shot Reggie a glare and how Reggie, though fidgeting, glared right back. 

When all equipment was laid out, Cheryl set the box aside and waved her hand over the table. “Your gear. Betty, I shall assist you in strapping them. But first, I’ll have those signed waivers.”

Betty handed hers as she peered at the implements and weapons, determining where she could put them all. 

Cheryl stood over her and assisted in shrugging off her coat, so she could attach the body holsters, which did expose the knives strapped to her arms. 

Reggie stared at them. “You weren’t joking.” His eyes scanned the rest of her, perhaps more out of curiosity than anything else. 

Jughead motioned to assist Reggie in turn. “Eyes up, Mantle, or I’ll knock them up for you. And why would she joke about such a thing?” 

“I was just--”

“Rhetorical. Your coat, please?”

Reggie sighed as he shrugged his coat off and draped it over the back of the chair. 

_ At least he said please. _

Sabathiel, Betty swore, sounded amused. 

As they strapped on their gear, Betty asked Cheryl about their missions.

“The whores think there’s a banshee in their attic,” Cheryl said. “Inaccurate, of course. There isn’t such a thing. It is just some spirits making enough of a ruckus that the Locked are hearing them.”

“More than one?” Reggie asked. 

“Likely. Probably some dead prostitutes. This should be an incredibly easy case. The first case always is.”

Betty sighed. Why was it always dead prostitutes? 

_ Because nobody gives a care about them, _Sabathiel said.

Betty shook her head to herself at that sad truth. “And the drug den?” she asked. 

Cheryl’s smile brightened. “Oh, _ that _isn’t a spirit. That is all about the living. A Seer has managed to procure contraband potions that enable the Locked to see things they aren’t supposed to see, and he is selling his wares to the Luminary. This Seer must be apprehended and brought in for old fashioned Kin reckoning.”

“The Luminary…” Betty mused out loud. “We have one in Riverdale, as well. Is it the same one?”

“It is.” Jughead said. “He flits between the Riverdale Vice Quarter and his main establishment in New York.”

Cheryl seemed impressed. “Ooh, more of that Southside know-how coming to the fore.” She pulled at a buckle and secured the holsters to Betty’s body before helping her back into her coat. 

Betty donned the rest of her gear. 

“That should be everything,” Cheryl finally said, handing the case files over to Jughead. “Off with you to your first mission, then. I’ve got work to do. Meetings to attend. The moment you are done for today, head back here for debriefs and reporting. The sooner that gets done, the sooner you may go home and rest--conserve your energies for the next mission, and then the next--which is my crowning achievement, quite honestly. It is an evening mission. You should be grateful. Not all Guardians manage to snag one for their recruits, but I pulled some strings.”

Betty was intrigued by this.

“What evening mission?” Reggie asked. 

“Didn’t I tell you this morning, Mantle?” Jughead said, swinging Cheryl’s office door open. “The Guild wishes to impress upon you that Peace Dealing isn’t all fun and games.”

Betty was a little surprised that Jughead hadn’t told her about it already, but she supposed Jughead had taken a day-by-day approach to these trials from the very beginning. She understood why. He didn’t want to give her any unfair advantages over other recruits any more than she did, but more importantly, he believed in her skills. He wouldn’t diminish that by helping her cheat. 

“They’re vampires, aren’t they?” Betty joked. 

“Worse than that, I’m afraid,” Cheryl said. “Now off you go. Your triumph awaits.” 

***************

“Reggie, you ought to take the lead, going into the brothel. Ease our way in there,” Betty suggested, as they rode a horse-drawn carriage through the streets of New York. 

The scenery outside moved by at a more leisurely pace than what the autocarriage offered, but being on the Locked side of the city, a horse-drawn carriage was the only option they had. It was still a Guild-issued one, however, so the interior was still fully equipped with Kin technology.

Reggie looked at her with shocked surprise and Jughead tried to contain the laugh that threatened to come out of him. 

“Why on earth?” Reggie cried. “I have _ never _been to a brothel!”

Betty seemed genuinely surprised. “Never?”

“Have you?”

She shrugged. “I may have.”

Reggie turned the brightest shade of red before dealing Jughead an accusing gaze, as if Betty having been to a brother were his fault. “Why don’t _ you _lead? You’re the Senior.”

Jughead’s amusement immediately turned sour. He wanted to tell Reggie that _ he _wasn’t the one applying for a job, but he was not in a giving mood, so he naturally resorted to sarcasm. “You are better suited for this task. Your roguish good looks and your charming naivete will surely send their prostitute hearts aflutter.”

“Why is it that even when you’re paying me a compliment, I feel insulted?” Reggie demanded.

“That was _ not _a compliment.”

Betty shot him a scolding look. “The point _ remains, _a brothel full of women will respond better to a man come-knocking on their door, and also you and I are the recruits. It is for us to solve this problem.”

“She is right,” Jughead conceded. He had no patience for Reggie’s state of displacement. He understood that to many Peace Dealers out of academy, this situation was entirely unfamiliar. For Betty, this was a commonplace occurrence. “Might I suggest, however, that you present yourself, not as a client, but something else entirely?”

“And how should I present myself, Senior Jones?”

Jughead opened a compartment and fished out an iron-plated badge. “Pest Control, authorized by the city sanitation officials. A rat infestation at the brothel can very well mean a bubonic plague outbreak.”

Reggie frowned. “Wailing in the attic? Those would have to be enormous rats.”

Jughead shrugged. “The Locked will accept any explanation that comforts them. Add that to your dashing good looks and we shall be done sooner than you’d expect.”

There was only one other badge for pest control, which he gave to Betty so that she and Reggie could be proper partners. He claimed the Sanitation Inspector badge. 

As they pulled up to the bordello, Jughead pondered the state of his mood. He was annoyed by the lovelorn looks Reggie constantly threw Betty’s way, yes, but the truth was that he could not be mad about it. He’d done his share of staring at Betty. How could he not? 

This mood was _ not _about that. This was about the Luminary, and how they were obligated to pay a visit to him for their second mission. 

He was not afraid the Luminary was going to out him. The man certainly knew that his trade depended on his discretion, but Jughead hadn’t gone near a drug den since he managed to clean up ten months ago. Putting a distance between him and the object of his addiction had proven to be a successful tactic. Now he was walking right into the belly of the beast, and he had no one to blame but himself. The truth would have spared him of this torment, for even Cheryl would have been kind enough to find a different mission for him and his recruits. 

He had a day to mentally prepare himself, however. He needed to focus on the task at hand for Betty’s sake, and perhaps Reggie’s as well. Not that he thought this visit to the bordello would be difficult. If he were being completely honest, Betty would be particularly adept at handling the spirits of prostitutes. 

Betty opened the Reaper file and Reggie immediately accessed the datamancer. 

The file indicated that there were perhaps at least two spirits in the attic, both former prostitutes with the bordello. One was found dead elsewhere and the other’s remains were still missing. 

“Did their madame kill them?” Reggie asked. 

Betty scowled. “Prostitutes are found dead on a rather regular basis, Mantle, and when they do, 90% of them are killed by their clients. That said, their murders are notoriously difficult to investigate on account of the fact that not a single client will ever admit to being with one. So no, I do not think their madame killed them--at least not intentionally. They are her means of income.”

Reggie looked properly chastised. “Well, does the file say anything about what the madame is like?”

Jughead took pity on him. “You might find information at the end-most part of the data.”

Reggie rolled the dials on the datamancer and read the notation out loud. “Madam Darling is as ruthless as any pimp and will slit your throat if you cheat her of her coffers. Her girls won’t cross her for fear of her reprisal, but she keeps them in a clean home with ample food, and the percentage she allots her prostitutes in their earnings is relatively larger than her other male peers.”

“So she is better than most, but probably not by much,” Betty grumbled. 

“How am I to approach her?” Reggie asked. 

Jughead arched an eyebrow. “How would you approach Guardian Blossom?”

“With perfect respect and appropriate caution.”

“The same shall apply here.” His frown deepened. “They aren’t serpent-haired Gorgons, Mantle.”

Reggie scowled but did not appear to want to trade words with him. “Of course. Right.”

As they arrived at the bordello with their badges in place, Reggie stood at the front door, and though he fidgeted momentarily, he rapped the knocker without need of prompting. 

Moments later, the door was opened by a lovely young woman, no older than 18. The dress she wore was out-of-fashion, but it was well sewn and neat. Her dark brown hair was glossy and her blue eyes sparkled like stars, but when she smiled, her yellow and rotting teeth bellied the fantasy. 

“What can I do for you strapping young gentlemen?” she asked, completely ignoring Betty. 

Reggie, to his credit, did not so much as blink. “We’ve been sent here by the city sanitation department to take care of those rats in your attic--to avert plague and pestilence, you understand. Is Madam Darling in the premises?”

She eyed him with well-honed doubt. “The lot of you look too well dressed to be rat trappers.”

“It’s the management,” Reggie continued without hesitation, thickening a street accent that Jughead did not know he was capable of. “They want us all to be properly dressed--seventh time I’ve worn this suit all week. Oh, an--” Reggie dug into his suit and brought out a small ringed notepad, flipping it open with pompous flourish. Not a single word was written on it. “‘We strive to offer impeccable service even before we walk through your door!’ How do you like that, eh? I was told I should say that.”

Jughead had to admit, that was a nice touch. 

A loud voice called from inside, asking who was at the door. 

“Pest control people!” the girl cried over her shoulder. 

An older woman, probably in her late forties, appeared at the door. Her striking red hair and immense hat was paired with a spectacularly garish dress that showed off her long legs. “Rat trappers? When did they start employing such fine looking men? What’s your name, handsome?”

“Re--Rhett,” Reggie replied, face frozen from having had to come up with a name at that very moment. “Dorning. Rhett Dorning. At your service.”

Jughead noted that it rhymed so much with Darling that it could have ruined his act completely, but Madam Darling did not seem to find issue with it.

“Ah, Mr. Dorning. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Madam Darling. The city sent you, you said? How much will it cost me? Ain’t nothing for free in this town.”

Jughead could see the mild panic in Reggie’s eyes and Jughead supposed he could assist with this one. “It ain’t free. Your taxes are paying for it. There are fees, but they are minimal.”

Madam Darling looked him up and down and slid her finger between her teeth with a seductive wink. “We can make arrangements for those fees, you and I.”

“I am not here to bill you, Madam,” Jughead replied, impassively. “But I will send a police officer with a warrant to shut you down if I find the conditions of this establishment extremely lacking.”

Madam Darling dropped the seductive act and turned her nose up at him. “City officials. Come inside, gentlemen.” She paused, finally noticing Betty. “I hope they’re paying you well, angel. Otherwise, you might be better off working here with those pretty puppies.” She pushed her corset up to indicate what she meant. 

Betty merely arched an eyebrow, wholly unembarrassed by the invitation. 

Jughead, much to his own chagrin, thought “pretty” quite the understatement. 

“Ain’t no one better off working here!” crowed one of the girls from within the establishment, followed by collective racuous laughter. 

“Oh, shut your trap, ya cunts!” Madam Darling yelled back. “Or I’ll stick more than mutton mongers in ya--set ya adrift in the Hudson face down!” 

Reggie shot Jughead an uneasy look and Jughead merely arched his eyebrow at him in warning. This was no time to act like a delicate flower.

They filed through the door as Madam Darling carried on. “Those ‘rats’ are no ordinary ‘rats.’ Probably as big as dogs, the way they carry on. They must have knocked open a window, the way the wind howls in there. You’d think there were banshees living in the attic.”

“Rats are clever,” Reggie said, hastily. Nonsensically.

As they walked down the hallway, the other prostitutes watched them with blatant curiosity, winking at them when they happened to make eye-contact. One of them blew Jughead a kiss.

“I play with girls, too!” chirped one of them at Betty, which caused the other girls to laugh and Betty to bite her lip to keep from joining them. 

They were led up a set of stairs to the second floor, and when they reached the landing, they walked down the hall under a trap in the ceiling. 

Madam Darling turned to Jughead. “Be a dear and pull that chain, tall lad that you are?” She looked him up and down. “I bet your height isn’t the only thing that’s long about you.”

Jughead hardly blinked, shooting Madam Darling a disapproving glare, but he did as he was asked without comment, dragging down the trap door that would lead into the attic. 

The Madam fanned herself. “Woof! Your outrage is getting me all hot and bothered, you know.” She bumped Betty’s shoulder. “This one can set fire to anyone’s loins and he ain’t even trying, eh?”

Betty seemed mildly surprised that the Madam actually expected her to respond. “Scorch your knickers right off.”

Reggie’s eyes widened with unbridled shock at her casual reference to unmentionables and it took an inordinate amount of effort for Jughead not to laugh. 

They climbed the steps and as they reached the landing, Reggie turned to the Madam and said, “We’ll take it from here, ma’am. Best you stay out--won’t be pretty. I ask only that no matter what you hear, do not attempt to enter this attic. We shall be releasing toxic gasses and it will kill you on contact.”

Madam Darling frowned. “Well, won’t that be deadly to you, as well?”

“We have developed immunities! Part of the job. We will tell you when it is safe to come back into the attic. In the meantime, clear the area.”

She left, throwing uncertain glances over her shoulder, but Reggie did not reassure her any further. When she was clear of the stairs, he slammed the trap door shut and slid the lock. 

“Immunities. To toxic gasses,” Jughead repeated in a pointedly deadened tone. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” Reggie shot back. 

There was a scream, and all three of them looked up to find the frightening visage of a spirit swooping in towards them. The spirit rattled a dresser and it trembled with fervor. 

The second spirit appeared from the corner, not as kinetically strong as the first, but as she approached them in a ghostly glide, she yelled unintelligible profanities that twisted her face. 

“Well, they’re angry,” Betty said, immediately clearing a space to start drawing a sigil with quick strokes. It was a warding sigil, meant to keep the spirits in the attic with them. 

“There is no way they believe this is a rat infestation,” Reggie cried. 

Jughead gave him an expectant look. “Perhaps if they weren’t so loud to the ladies downstairs, we can do our work without interruption from curious witnesses.”

Reggie blinked momentarily in confusion before he realized what Jughead was prompting from him. “A silencing sigil. Yes, of course.”

Reggie immediately went to work and when the attic was both warded and silenced, they stood staring at the furious spirits who were just now realizing that they were somehow trapped in this enclosed space. 

“Well, let’s get on with it, then,” Reggie said, fishing a vessel out of his satchel. “Send them on their way." 

Betty frowned. “Hold on. Aren’t we going to find out what they’re going on about, first?”

“What?”

“Betty speaks to spirits,” Jughead explained. “She finds out why they refuse to move on and she helps them resolve their unfinished business.”

“What?” Reggie asked, again. 

“Give me five minutes,” Betty implored loudly over the din. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to find out. As you can see, they are very much willing to vocalize their grievances. Please?”

Jughead surmised that it couldn’t hurt, and he was never one to say no to her, anyway. “Do what you must, Betts.”

Betty approached the closest ghost and Reggie made a motion to warn her, but Jughead clapped a hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “Watch and learn, Mantle.”

“Hello there. My name is Betty Cooper. I am a Peace Dealer and I bear no ill will towards you,” she cried over the noise. 

The prostitute's deadened eyes grew black with rage and she began to wail even louder. 

“The devil get you!” the other hissed, hovering around her, repeating her words like a mantra. 

“Now, calm down!” Betty shouted. “There is no need for that! You only do all this for attention, and now you have it! Don’t squander it. I am willing to listen. I need only to know what you are so angry about.”

Amidst the screaming, “That bitch!” hissed like a second voice. Both spirits began pointing to the floor, flailing dramatically at intervals. 

“Madam Darling. You mean Madam Darling,” Betty said. “What has she done to you?”

The wailing one shook her head at her companion and the ghosts took on a different mantra. “This one is too soft. Too dear. She can’t help. She can’t.”

“I am not as soft as you think,” Betty said, firmly. 

The screaming faded and spectral laughter filled the attic. The hovering spirit gestured towards Betty’s skirts. “Never had to spread those to earn your keep.” 

Jughead felt his collar grow hot with embarrassment. Even _ he _thought that too much, but Betty was completely unaffected. 

“Well…” Betty began with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “You’ve got me there. Never done it for money.” 

Reggie dropped something and the vessel he had in his hand shattered on the floor. Jughead had to admit, he could _ not _tell if Betty was pretending or speaking the truth. 

“I trade in information,” Betty added swiftly, which Jughead figured wasn’t a lie. “I’ve walked in your shoes to find answers.”

“Nice girl like you?” asked the Wailer. 

“I am many things, but nice, I am not.”

The Hoverer circled Jughead and Reggie. “Which one of these? Who do you play with?”

Betty looked over her shoulder at them. “Guess.”

Jughead rolled his eyes and Reggie made a sound of disbelief.

The Hoverer swooped close around Reggie, the spectral mist of her body bouncing off Reggie’s corporeal form. Then she transferred her attentions to Jughead, who watched her with blatant curiosity. 

When she was done, she went back to circling Betty. “Trouble. You are with trouble.”

Jughead wondered if she had looked into his very soul.

Betty nodded. “Let me help you both. Tell me what Madam Darling has done to you.”

“She stole from us,” said the Wailer. “Took the money right from beneath our mattresses and kept it for herself. She promised that if anything were to happen...”

“... that she would sent it to our families…” finished the other.

Broken promises were so often the cause of hauntings. Spirits will forget everything, but broken promises got branded into their spectral consciousness. 

“How can I force her to keep her promise?” Betty asked. 

The Wailer said nothing, but the Hoverer was quick to respond. “My body is rotting beneath the earth in the basement. I died from a babe-taking that she administered--accidental. She did not mean for me to die.”

Betty looked at her with compassion. “I am sorry.”

“Babe taking?” Reggie asked. 

“An abortion,” Jughead explained. It was an old tragedy, and one that likely repeated itself in this profession--that women perished for doing what they had to do. It was clear that the Madam knew what her fate would be should the police discover that she had not only performed such a surgery on the premises, but that it led to a fatality. The Madam was likely to land in the clink for both.

“But that will be helpful,” Betty continued. “Thank you.”

As Betty promised them that their final wishes would be administered, their way to the Other Realm opened up above them, and just as quickly as they appeared, they faded and were gone. 

Betty turned and looked at the shattered vessel at Reggie’s feet. “Good thing we didn’t need that.”

“It slipped,” Reggie explained, weakly. 

“Good work, Betty,” Jughead said, dragging his foot over the sigils that Reggie and Betty drew on the floor. “And nice work, Mantle. This operation went smoothly, thanks to you both.”

Betty responded with an amused smirk. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it helped that the Madam took a shining to you, Juggie.”

Jughead rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the Madam’s blatant propositions. “Shall you bring up the spirits’ grievances with the madam?”

Betty sighed. “I must. I dislike having to use this particular leverage, but I have to do right by those women.” 

The determined look on her face had Jughead nodding. “Go on, then. Mantle and I will be right behind you.”

“We will do this with the madam?” Reggie asked, surprise. “Us? Should we not inform the police?”

Jughead ignored him and so did Betty. 

There was no time to explain as Betty marched swiftly out of the attic and straight to the madam. She looked so determined that the whores parted to let her pass. 

“We must speak in private,” Betty told Madam Darling.

She sneered, noting Betty’s aggressive stance. “Must we?” 

“If you want what I have to say to remain secret, yes.”

The shift in the dynamic, where Betty was now taking the lead, seemed to have been noted by the Madam. She looked at Betty, then at them, and when they made no move to gainsay her, that seemed to convince the madam to heed her warning. They were taken to a room, which she called her “boudoir.” Jughead secured the door behind them and Reggie quickly drew a silencing sigil, this time without prompting. As soon as Reggie activated the sigil, Betty turned to Madam Darling.

“The two prostitutes who most recently died,” Betty began without preamble. “Did you send their savings to their families, as you promised them?”

“What savings?”

Betty did not demure. “I don’t like that you are taking the hard labors of other women for your own benefit, madam. Did you send their savings to their families?”

Madam Darling shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Betty paused, eyeing her, hesitating with the leverage she had. When she expelled a reluctant breath, Jughead knew she would use it. “I know what’s in your basement. _ That _, and the fact that you broke a promise that you likely made to every single girl working for you--not only will the police come down on you after I tell them about the body downstairs, but every girl outside this door will probably think twice about working for you once they know that you aren’t good for your word. You can’t be the only madam who pays them a fair commission in these parts.”

Madam Darling gave a start of shock. “How did you--”

“Don’t ask.” Betty stepped right within Madam Darling’s space. “Give me their money henceforth, as well as their family’s exact location. I will make sure their savings are delivered safely.”

“Do you take me for a fool? How will I know you won’t spend it for yourself?” 

“You don’t, but give me that money and information now and these gentlemen and I will walk out of here with the future of your business and your freedom assured.” 

“What was the name of your pest control company again?”

“The money, Madam Darling.”

Uttering oaths of the vilest sort, she began to fish pouches from beneath her skirts. She handed them to Betty and Betty quickly checked their contents. There was a considerable amount of coin and banknotes rolled into tubes. Amongst the money was a scrap of paper, and Betty took it out to read out loud what was on it. “Georgina Meyer. There is an address here, as well.”

“It’s what I tell the girls to do,” Madam Darling explained reluctantly. “Put the name and address of their beneficiaries in there with it so I do not have to go hunting for promises in my non-existent filing cabinets.”

Betty had no way of knowing if this was everything, but Betty told her, “All of it, Madam. It is only right that you keep nothing of theirs. You have already taken your share of the profits.”

Madam Darling growled. She fished a few more banknotes from between her breasts and Betty split the wad equally, placing the shares in their respective pouches. 

“That’ll do, Madam,” Betty said. “I thank you for your honesty.” 

Madam Darling looked like she would have pounced and scratched Betty’s eyes out if Jughead and Reggie weren’t there to protect her. 

Betty turned and gave Jughead a nod. At this, Jughead swung the door open for her to walk through. 

The women scattered away from the door, no doubt having tried their best to eavesdrop. Jughead doubted anything got through Reggie’s sigil.

They left the premises with Madam Darling yelling profanities right after them. 

When they stepped back out onto the streets, Jughead noted that Reggie looked properly shellshocked, and Moose took notice of this. 

“You look winded, Mantle,” Moose said as they approached. 

Jughead chuckled. “Mantle just attended a master class on how to shake a madam down.” 

Moose shook his head and hopped back up onto the carriage. “You sound so proud, Jones, so I can only conclude that it must have been Ms. Cooper. Quick, get Mantle into the carriage before the vapors overcome him completely.”

“Oh, stop teasing, Mr. Mason,” Betty said, belying her admonishment with her fond tone. 

Reggie frowned and alighted the carriage. “I am not winded and the vapors have never struck me.”

“Moose, apologize at once,” Jughead said with excessive gravity, and Moose merely laughed. 

“And you,” Betty said to him, quietly, so that only he may hear. “Mr. Trouble. Your mood has lightened considerably. Had your fun?”

He leaned even closer to whisper in her ear. “Oh, my love. It is always enjoyable when you are around.”

****************

There was a book between them, again, but Betty had no complaints. It was _ their _ book of sigils, now. 

They were on the roof of the Jones home, gazing up at the stars above them by turns and looking to the book for guidance. 

This time, they had a writing slate, committing the sigils by memory as they spoke the oldest of Enochian invocations and practiced the illustrations. That their Daemons shimmered together as they practiced them made them look at each other with triumphant glee. This was working. They were actually invoking sigils as Daemon Bound. 

It was a little strange, this bond they shared, intermingling with their feelings of deep affection. 

On a conscious level, Betty kept to the boundaries of their practice. 

As they worked on perfecting their sigils, she respected the physical distance he was putting between them, understanding that in this instance, they needed that boundary to focus on their work, but she could feel him being drawn to her, could feel the weight of his gaze. It was tempting to provoke him, but knew from their morning encounter at the top of the stairs that his will on the matter was so easily broken. 

If it weren’t for that feeling she had--that he was holding something back, she might have considered everything relatively ideal. 

They had just finished practicing their second sigil when he pointed to the horizon, where the view of the city was lovely against the darkness and the Menhir shone like a beacon. “This city and this society is rich and prosperous and I admit that sometimes I forget that there are people like that prostitute in Madam Darling’s basement that suffer the realities of their plight. Though most of the cases we are given as Peace Dealers take us to a wide range of Locked citizens, I hardly talked to any of those spirits like you do. I look back on it now and I realize that I have been…” he sighed, looking at his hands. “Removed from it all. Perhaps it is why Charles wanted us both to do it the old way, so that the spirits aren’t just quotas to us.”

“Who is to say that my views would not have changed, had I been given the opportunity to go to academy, myself? I am only like this because I worked under Charles for years. It is deeply ingrained in me because it was all that I knew.”

He made a discontented sound, though a small smile quirked his lips. “It sounds like an excuse I would make for myself. Charles trusted that I would uphold those values when he let me leave with mother all those years ago. I know because he told me this in his vault letter. Those were his exact words.” 

There was a question in his eyes, about whether he had failed Charles, somehow and she wondered if this was one of the things that was holding him back.

“And what values did you think that was?” Betty asked him, cupping his face tenderly. “To be a good man? To work hard for your success? To take care of me and fight for my happiness? You have done all of that and more.”

He turned his lips to kiss her palm, and there was that need of his again, to touch her and love her, but held back by his invisible restraints. 

He took her hands in his but his gaze returned to the horizon. “Those are easy. They benefit me. They make _ me _happy. Taking care of you is as natural for me as breathing. Taking the time to know these spirits, like you have--that is an inconvenience for me.” He paused and looked back at her. “Peace Dealing the way you have--it has kept you humble. The way I am Peace Dealing now--the way I learned it from the academy, from the Guild, it had unintended effects on my character. It did nothing to curb my arrogance.”

Betty felt like he was describing someone else. There was nothing about Jughead that she would consider arrogant in any way. His beginnings were so humble, and even when Charles took him in--even as Charles had bequeathed his fortunes to him, Jughead remained grounded and self-aware. 

“Who is this arrogant Jughead that you speak of?” she asked, confused. “I don’t know him.”

He chuckled softly. “I am glad you never met him, for you would have hated him for sure. It started off as a means to survive Stonewall and its elitist culture, a means to assimilate; to make certain that my hard work would not be brushed aside by the privileged few who did not have to work as hard as the rest of us. But I became so good at it that I became the privileged few, and after I graduated Stonewall, I found that it was just as easy to find favor in the Guild, being the way that I was.” 

She still did not believe it. “And what did Mr. Mason have to say about it all? He was your roommate, wasn’t he?”

“Moose has always been an even-tempered man. He put up with my rubbish because he knew who I was before the absurdity, and perhaps because he had his own cares and challenges to think about.”

She understood how Moose was the sort to let a variety of personalities roll easily off his back, but she also knew he wouldn’t stand for anything remotely approaching cruelty or indifference. She didn’t think, for instance, that Moose would suffer the likes of Nick St. Claire and his ilk, and knowing Jughead, he never would have been as bad. 

_ Knowing Jughead, he probably thought himself worse than he actually was. _

“Give me one example of what made you so horrible, Juggie.”

“Ah. I was afraid that you would ask me that.”

“Give me an example or I will not believe you.”

A small laugh escaped him. “Maybe I don’t want you to believe me.”

This was an interesting bind. It was just like the push and pull of Jughead’s feelings for her, how she felt he wanted to give in while stopping himself from doing so. She did not want to force him to come to terms with it. Whatever his conflict, he needed to resolve it himself. She only had her love to offer him. 

She placed her hand upon his arm and felt the brace that supported it. “You can tell me when you’re ready and not before that.” 

He clasped both her hands and nodded, saying nothing as he once again let his gaze rest on the city beyond them. “The next mission will be an interesting one. I have not been sent to one such mission since… for a while now. I wish you to be careful, Betty.”

She nodded, tracing his jaw with her finger. It had the desired effect of getting him to look at her again. She kissed him, softly this time, and she did not tempt him to do more. She had loved him for as long as she knew him, and that fact must not get lost in her intense need for physical expression. 

His eyes remained closed as their lips parted, but he touched his forehead to hers, letting their fingers lace together between them. 

Betty could live off this tenderness forever, knowing how he felt, knowing that he wanted her as much as she did him. She could nurture this and give him what time he needed to untangle the knot that he had bound himself with.

A sound came from the stairwell and Betty took the book and hid it beneath the drape of her skirt. 

Soon enough, FP emerged from the row of plants and vegetables. He seemed dispirited, like he bore bad news. 

Jughead felt it, too. “What is it? What’s happened?”

FP waved his hand in a calming motion while he gave Betty a nod of acknowledgement. “Nothing happened, but I do have disappointing news. I looked into Charles’s Daemon, like you asked, but it’s gone, Jughead. It wasn’t there.”

Betty’s heart sank and felt the tragedy of the loss, but Jughead seemed undeterred. “Gone, how? Sent through the gates? What do you mean--?”

“Gone. _ Taken,” _FP said more distinctly. “The gates have not yet been opened this year, so the Daemon is still on this realm, just not in the Room of Realms vault. Someone has taken it and is keeping it, clearly, otherwise, either one of you should have it by now.” He made a snorting sound. “Wouldn’t it be funny if he bequeathed his Daemon to Jellybean?”

Betty was struck by the compelling thought that yes, Jellybean was Charles’s sister, too. 

Jughead was not so distracted. “Well, where is it, then?”

FP sighed. “There was a breach in the vault a few months ago. The handful of Daemons in storage were stolen and one of the personnel from the Room of Realms was never heard from again.”

Jughead seemed outraged. “Why did we not hear of this? One would think that the Guild would have been all up in arms at a breach like that. Stolen Daemons sound like a potential Wraith Lord threat.”

“It was kept quiet since it involved one of our own. The office of Guildswoman Burble handled it.”

Betty shot Jughead a knowing look. 

“Do we know who the person was?” Betty asked. 

FP nodded. “One Mr. Harvey Kinkle. All his records have been sequestered and deemed classified.”

_ “All _of them?” Jughead asked. “Well, he could not have just disappeared. Somebody knew of him, somehow.”

FP shrugged. “There might be someone in the Room of Realms willing to talk about him, but if you don’t wish to alert the Guild to your snooping, I suggest you meet with them outside of work.” He pulled a piece of paper from inside his coat and gave it to Jughead.

Jughead looked at it quickly. “Theo Putnam and Rosalind Walker,” he read out loud. “Who are these?”

“The Room of Realms supervisor referred to them when he mentioned Mr. Kinkle. Apparently they were friends of his,” FP explained. “Mr. Putnam seemed rather uneasy when asked. He said he didn’t know Mr. Kinkle all that much. Ms. Walker was even more put off, saying that Mr. Kinkle was being falsely accused of theft. One or both seemed to be lying.”

Betty’s investigative senses were tingling. This was their lead. She looked at Jughead who was already tearing the paper to pieces and throwing it over the rooftop railing. 

“Thank you, father,” Jughead said. “I suppose that’s the end of it, then. Charles’s Daemon is lost forever.”

Betty stared at him. She wasn’t sure if she heard him right. Was he just giving up? That did not sound like Jughead at all. Even FP seemed surprised. 

“Son--”

“You should stop asking questions, father. Let us not give human resources a reason to ruin your career.” He delivered this with a tone of finality, and FP clamped his lips shut. 

After a moment of tense silence, FP sighed and shook his head. “You two be careful, do you hear me? Ask yourselves if this is worth the trouble.”

Jughead said nothing, and after FP gave Betty a nod, he left to go back inside the house. 

Before Betty could erupt with protestations, Jughead held his hand up to forestall her. 

“This is not over,” he said. “But father needs to stay away from this. You and I will do this without his help.”

Betty gave a sigh of relief and nodded. “Agreed. But Guildswoman Burble! Do you think this is all connected? Her calling me to her office and offering Charles’s Daemon to get information from me?”

He nodded. “There is something afoot, Betty. I don’t know what it is, but if it has something to do with Charles, we have to start thinking that his death was not an accident. That someone, after all those years following his exile, decided that what he knew was worth killing for.”

A stone dropped in her stomach. She could not believe where they suddenly found themselves, and yet she knew that it was not born from madness. She could feel the horror rushing out of her chest. “B-But, it was a hunting accident. His business partners told us...the coroner said he broke his neck in the fall. His gun went off and it must have frightened his horse and--and...”

His gaze softened. “Did they watch him fall off his horse? Did they see all this happen?”

She could feel the sting of tears burning her eyes. “Wasn’t it enough that they excommunicated him? Why did they have to kill him, too?”

“I don’t know.” His hands cupped her face, and when she looked up, she saw the fire of determination in his gaze. “I don’t know, but we will find out who did this. You and I. We will not rest until we find out who killed Charles and why.”

She nodded, her own determination catching alight. She could only be grateful that they were finding this out now, together. It was empowering, being with him and knowing she wasn’t alone. It took away from the hurt and the grief, enabled her to channel it towards something productive. Something they can _ do. _

She sank into his embrace, closing her eyes as she listened to his beating heart and knew that within moments, her heart was beating in tandem with his. 


	12. Between Color and Truth

Colors, particularly light ones, looked lovely on Betty. They brought out the sheen of her golden hair and complemented her lips. She looked radiant in baby blues, muaves, purple lavenders, and sunlit yellows. Embroidered lace accented her fresh and feminine palette, whether draped or overlayed against fabric or skin. She was a picture almost nearly designed to delight and adore. 

But it was, to Jughead’s mind, a means to foil any notion that she could be anything but what the colors conveyed. She wore those colors and shades to disarm, to make someone think that she would be nothing but agreeable and pliant, when in fact she had a mind of her own, deadly-quick wit, and a will like iron. 

Her true colors, Jughead knew, were the greens, silvers, reds, and even night black. In those colors she captivated, her eyes alive like wild forests, teeming with hidden stories, some of them his own, and perhaps that was why he felt weak in its gaze, because weren’t we most vulnerable when staring into our reflections?

The soft silver sheen of her dress was accented with a brocade of green and red flowers, adding character to what could have been an ostentatious dress. The white lace trim softened its daring, shading skin that might have sent even the mildest of minds into imaginings of daring. 

Her swept up hair was knotted to the back of her head, away from her neck, casting a graceful slope from nape to shoulder. He felt it beckon, to fit into the spaces he desperately wanted to claim.

He wanted nothing more than to press his lips on that tantalizing curve, to inhale the soft and sweet vanilla scent of her skin, and to whisper in her ear, _ My soul has found yours _.

She stood at the threshold of the drawing room, framed in a moment.

He went to her, kissed the back of her hand, and held her palm to his chest. “I cannot find the words.”

The blush that spread on her cheeks pooled pleasure in the pit of his stomach. 

“Words are not required,” she whispered.

He pressed a kiss to her brow, closing his eyes and sighing as first she leaned into it, and then when she sought more. The warmth between their interlocked lips spread through his body, and even with the slow cadence of the joining, the gradual parting of lips, the lazy circling of their tongues, desire coursed so instantly through his veins that he wondered rather callously if he could possibly take her away from all this so they can spend the rest of the evening alone together. 

When he heard the tread of footsteps from above, they instinctively separated, catching their breaths as they listened to the footsteps grow closer. He stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back, and watched the stairwell upon which his family descended. 

Jellybean came flouncing down the steps, then his mother, then his father. All were dressed in party finery, ready to attend one of the most exclusive events of the year--the birthday celebration of the Primary Guildsman’s youngest beloved daughter. 

“Well,” Gladys said, giving Betty a markedly appraising look before sweeping her gaze to the rest of them. “Aren’t we all fit to be seen? Betty, my dear, you are a vision. Just like your mother, don’t you think so FP?”

“I can’t recall,” FP said, much to Jughead’s eternal anxiety. “But I shall take your word for it.”

Jughead wondered how his father could say such things with a straight face. “I am sure that Betty will make an indelible impression all her own.” 

Jellybean slipped her arm around Betty’s and began to lead them down the narrow hallway. “All eyes will fall on her and I can enter unnoticed, as preferred.”

“I am sure that won’t be the case,” Betty said as they walked towards the front doors. 

Jughead was sure she was wrong, for he would swear that the pleasure of looking at her all night would be the only thing he looked forward to at the party.

He let his father and mother go next and he walked in the rear, tapping Kevin’s shoulder as he passed their butler at the door. “I’ll take footman duties.”

Kevin nodded and let Jughead attend to the family. The coachman tipped his hat at Jughead as he sat waiting, and Jughead held the carriage door open for everyone to alight. When all were loaded, Jughead entered last and secured the door.

FP’s tap on the roof signaled their departure and off they went to Veronica Lodge’s birthday soiree.

**************************

The Lodge “townhouse” was an elegantly enormous building that took up nearly an entire New Kin City block. It was five stories above ground and perhaps at least two levels below. The porte-cochère entrance, used for formal events such as these, was an architectural marvel, with ornate masonry and elegant arches. It was bright with aethyr powered lights, and a long line of horse-drawn coaches and autocarriages formed down the avenue.

The guests were gathered in the spacious receiving room, conversing pleasantly and easily in groups, bright spots of color against a backdrop of carefully crafted interiors made of luxurious draperies, beautifully carved masonry, and gilded lighting.

Betty had heard from Jellybean that the _ actual _Lodge mansion was somewhere in Rhode Island, where the Lodges summered along the Breakers. This told Betty that the Lodges were incredibly, unimaginably rich, and she had to wonder what manner of businesses they ran, for this wealth could not possibly be Guild-salary funded. 

As they joined the gathering of guests, Jellybean immediately excused herself, having seen her co-scientists gathered at the far end of the room. 

Gladys immediately swept FP into conversation with a group of Guildsmen, and Betty found herself with Jughead, who had already hooked her hand over his arm. 

She instinctively moved closer, indulging herself by staring at him. He looked dreadfully handsome tonight. He always did, but she seldom saw him with his white tie and well-fitting waistcoat. That he still refused to slick back his hair made her shudder with delight, and the way he looked at her in the drawing room at home sent her reeling. No man had ever looked at her that way and she wanted nothing more than to reward him for making her feel so beautiful. 

But at the moment, his attention was on their surroundings, scanning the room with his fierce scowl. She almost laughed. He clearly hadn’t changed his opinion of parties in the least. 

“Are you looking for someone?” Betty asked. 

He seemed surprised. “Someone? My lady, I am looking for a place to _ hide.” _

Of course he would. She laughed and shook her head, scanning the crowd herself. She was quick to find a familiar face. “I see. Well, we must remedy this situation immediately.”

“You’ve found a place?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not, my heart. I’ve spotted Cheryl and Toni. We must go to them at once.”

“At once? There is no imperative to go to them at once.”

Betty ignored his objections and waved at Toni to catch her attention. 

Toni saw her, spoke in Cheryl’s ear, and when Cheryl turned, her bright smile and eager wave had Betty thinking that Cheryl and Toni may actually like her--or have use of her, which she would take over Cheryl’s ruthless spite. 

“They are coming over,” Jughead pointed out, as if in warning. 

Betty kept the smile on her face for the approaching ladies’ benefit, even as she spoke through her well-practiced grin, “Your powers of deduction make me swoon… Juggie, that is the _ point.” _

“I thought we agreed that we would find some secluded corner and wait this party out?”

Even maintaining her smile, her brows knitted at this mild revisionist history. “We agreed to no such thing.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Did I imagine all that when we were singularly engaged in the drawing room at home?”

If he intended to make her blush, he succeeded with utmost ferocity, but she was not to be rattled. “I certainly recall that our tongues were not preoccupied by words, and I am sincerely hoping you were imagining other things, preferably pertaining to me, exclusively.”

His smirk told her that he was teasing all along and that he was proud of her for her shameless wit. 

Whatever misgivings Jughead had for soirees such as these, it appeared he was not completely immune to its festive ambience if he was in a teasing mood.

Cheryl and Toni came sweeping into their space, smiles bright with welcome. 

The former’s dress had a deep red lining, overlaid with a skirt length brocade design of red flowers on an ivory canvass. The bell sleeves gave the dress the modesty its color inherently did not possess. It was beautiful and it looked expensive, but it pushed the boundaries of polite society.

Toni maintained her signature lace, but the metal in her clothing was replaced by silver filigree accents and a red and blue plaid bodice accent piece. She chose to show her shoulders and arms, which were glorious with tattoos, as was befitting a woman of her profession. 

Jughead, without a hint of his earlier misgivings, gave them a dignified bow. “Ms. Blossom, Ms. Topaz.”

Toni rolled her eyes. “Must we, Jones? Don’t be a bore.”

Cheryl sneered. “He does it deliberately, _ ma chére, _ so that we tire of him and leave him alone, therefore we must do the opposite. _ ” _ She turned to Betty. _ “Ma choupette! _You look lovely, which is splendid. I only surround myself with beautiful people.”

“I am honored to meet your standards,” Betty said with a sweeping curtsey. 

Cheryl scoffed. “Oh, don’t be cross! We must walk the room, and determine who is or isn’t important to talk to. That includes you, Forsythe. Don’t think to run away while our backs are turned.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

With Cheryl on one arm and Toni on another, Betty let herself get swept into Cheryl and Toni’s tour, glancing briefly over her shoulder to make sure that Jughead, indeed, hadn’t run away. 

His assuring wink made her giggle, in spite of herself. 

Toni rattled off the men and women of importance. “You know Guildswoman Burble. She is invited everywhere, for no one dares to leave her out and offend her. She does not always attend, but she will be sure to tell you whether she will or she won’t. She is as proper as she is powerful.”

Betty had no doubt that was true. Guildswoman Burble locked eyes with her, raising an eyebrow as she gave a nod of acknowledgement.

Toni gently dug her elbow into Betty’s side to catch her attention again. “That is Ealdorwoman Sierra McCoy. She runs New Kin City. To the Locked, she might be called ‘Mayor’, but she is much more powerful than that. The Locked elect their Mayor. Ealdorwoman McCoy, like all Ealdormen and women before her, were appointed by the Imperium, and she will have that position so long as the Imperium favors her, which could be a lifetime.”

Betty was familiar with Kin government and its structure. It wanted to act like a democracy, but its empiric roots showed in its ways and means. 

Ealdorwoman McCoy certainly looked formidable, with all heads around her lowered in deference. She looked stately in her rich blue dress and her intricate chignon. There was but one woman in the group who appeared to be comfortable in her presence, striking in her purple dress and curly black hair. 

“Who is that lady with her?” Betty asked. 

“Ms. Josie McCoy. Her daughter,” Cheryl explained. “She is a maestro and singer. Classically trained with impeccable technical skills but far too bold in her song choices than her father would prefer.”

Betty was more interested in the dynamic of a powerful politician having an artist for a daughter. What was such a relationship like? Did her mother approve of her career choice? Her father certainly had an opinion. 

As they walked through the room, Toni pointed out men and women of import and interest, and Cheryl proudly explained that many of these people had passed under Toni’s artistic needle. 

“Your profession fascinates me, Toni,” Betty said, turning to her amidst the excited buzz of people in the room. “How much do you learn of people when you auger their Daemons?”

Toni grinned and Cheryl’s smile grew wider than Betty had seen it. Truly, it seemed like the way to Cheryl’s heart was through her Antoinette. 

“Probably only a little,” Toni said, shrugging. “The Kin often get their Daemons as small children—new humans, practically. At that stage, I get a glimpse of their personalities, but they aren’t fully formed as people. They are young--still impressionable. I wouldn’t hold most people to their ways as children.”

Betty looked at her, thoughtfully, remembering the times as a child that she had acted petulant and impossible. She imagined that given Jughead and Toni’s backgrounds, some children had to grow up quicker than others. “Most?”

Toni laughed quietly. “I have not been doing this long enough to witness the full-breadth of human tragedy, but I’ve encountered enough of a sampling to know that as fascinating and awe inspiring as we can be, we can also be frightening, or worse, disturbing.”

“How positively Dickensian of you, Toni,” Cheryl remarked. “The children are innocent--even the most hardened ones are. Get to the parts we really wish to hear about--the adults and their depravity and excess, their vices and indiscretions.”

Jughead made a sound of distaste. “Let it be known that I do not wish to hear about any of that.”

“Inkers are the Kin’s confessors,” Cheryl continued. 

Toni gave her a pointed glare. “And as an Inker, I have a sworn duty to protect those innermost thoughts and sentiments. Besides, I know nothing of what anyone _ does. _ I cannot glean deeds. I learn wants and desires, pain and sadness, joy and hate. Many, _ many _people have these emotions and never act on them. None of it is a confession.”

“But does it make you form opinions of them?” Betty asked. 

“I try not to,” Toni replied easily. “And I certainly don’t tell Cheryl anything. We keep our professional lives completely separate from our personal ones.”

Jughead scoffed. “You tell Cheryl everything.”

“Everything _ outside _of work. If word gets around that I am spilling the unguarded thoughts and sentiments of Kinsmen, people will want no part of my services. A hefty portion of my income outside of the Guild comes from Enhancement Inking. I do not wish to lose that business.”

_ Enhancements. _

Betty arched an eyebrow at Jughead, perhaps to tell him to prepare himself for when she asked about it later, but that intriguing aspect aside, Enhancements were a fascinating thing. One can add to the capabilities of a Daemon such as flight, additional limbs, sharper claws, horns and teeth. These physical Enhancements could be used by Daemons in short bursts, but once the enhancement has been added, a Daemon would have access to its use for as long as its Kinsman was alive. Other Enhancements, the _ ability _Enhancements, remain activated in the background indefinitely. Such Enhancements need not be invoked, for they are present like natural Marks. Sabrina gave her such an Enhancement to mask her Daemon, making it undetectable, some Kinsmen give their Daemons the ability to hear from longer distances, or the ability to breathe for Kinsmen underwater. There are scores of abilities that may be useful to a Kinsman, depending most often on their chosen professions.

It was the reason Inkers were held in high esteem, for it was the Inker who would determine if a Kinsman was fit for the enhancement they wanted. 

“So should you ever come to me for an Enhancement, Jonesey, I shan't tell a soul of what I glean from your cold black heart.” 

He whipped her a withering look. “Enhancements are for the weak.”

Toni laughed. “If you decide otherwise… I call dibs on your first. If you go to anyone else, I will never speak to you again.”

Jughead chose not to honor it with a response, disengaging for a bit when a gentleman walking by acknowledged him with a nod and he nodded back.

They continued to walk, and Cheryl introduced her to a few more Guildsmen in the room who had heard of her from the trials. 

“Where is the celebrant?” Betty finally asked. 

Jughead checked his pocket watch. “She should be along, shortly. Believe me when I say you won’t miss her.”

True enough, shortly thereafter, Veronica emerged from the top of a grand staircase festooned with teardrop crystals and flowers. Her dress was a resplendent white, with exquisitely embroidered and starkly contrasting multicolored blooms on her bodice and the hem of a luxuriant, layered skirt. Needing no introduction, murmurs of admiration and exclamations of awe buzzed over the polite applause. Escorting her down the steps was none other than Archie Andrews, who was elegantly robed in a dashing black suit. 

“I suppose he _ didn’t _need me to introduce him,” Betty said, grinning.

“Oh, V likely took care of that,” Toni muttered. “She was never one to wait.”

As Veronica reached the bottom of the steps, she gave Archie a sultry look as he kissed her hand and transferred it to the arm of an older gentleman, strikingly chiseled and deadly attractive. 

“That is Prime Guildsman Hiram Lodge,” Toni explained. “Her father. And beside him, Prime Consort Hermione Lodge.”

Both of Veronica’s parents had dark features, shiny black hair, and what many would call regal features. It was little wonder that Veronica looked so elegant and beautiful. 

Cheryl arched an eyebrow. “Veronica always did like a grand entrance.”

“You say that as if you didn’t climb atop a dining table at Guildsman Hall to announce your promotion to Guardian,” Jughead commented, snidely.

Cheryl turned her nose up. “I do not make entrances. I explode into a scene.”

There was no lie there.

After Veronica gave her carefully prepared speech about being grateful first to her parents, then to her guest, she went on to tell everyone in attendance that she was honored to have such distinguished guests celebrating with her. There were dedications and there were charities and benefits--all very appropriate for the youngest daughter of a prominent man. 

A taller, distinguished looking woman whispered in Veronica’s ear, which seemed to prompt Veronica to announce that dinner will now be served in the dining hall. She was lovely, but indistinct in a pretty but understated brown dress.

Her hand had returned to Jughead’s arm while ahead of them, Cheryl and Toni walked arm in arm, heads together and laughing at the notion that a man would have to sit between them at dinner. 

“Who was that woman with Veronica just now?” Betty whispered. 

“Ms. Hermosa Lodge,” Jughead replied. “Veronica’s sister. She does not like attention as much as Veronica does. She prefers to remain in the background.”

Betty took note of how Hermosa, even now as everyone filed through the dining hall doors, watched the wave of guests and had not joined her family, who had led the way in. She stood aside, watching the proceedings, as if she had removed herself from it. Beside her a sullen looking man stood like a sentinel. His eyes shifted ever so slightly, but he remained unmoving, seemingly waiting to be told what to do. 

As they entered the dining hall, Betty’s gaze fell upon the two impossibly long dinner tables, exquisitely appointed with the finest china, shiny silverware, crystal goblets, tasteful flower arrangements, and sparkling candelabra. There were placeholders, and the ushers led guests to their seating, putting order to the well-mannered chaos with their Daemons perched on their shoulders.

Betty and Jughead were led to their place, surrounded by a mix of strangers and familiar faces alike. 

Jughead was no doubt relieved that he had at least been placed beside her. To the left of her was Archie Andrews. She could see half-a-dozen eyes on him, most of them belonging to women, but she may have spied some men looking his way, as well. 

She supposed he looked dashing, and that red hair made him look distinct. Perhaps in another life, she might have thought him attractive, but under cover of the table, she slipped her hand into Jughead’s, who laced their fingers together, his thumb rubbing the back of hers as a gentle reminder, even as she smiled at Archie. 

“Andrews,” she said. “I did not expect to see you, but I’m glad you’re here.”

He seemed shy, all of a sudden, gone of the bravado that so distinctly marked his performances at the trials. He looked younger for it, in fact. Boyish, even. His grin was friendlier, and there was a guileless charm to him. “Cooper. I am so relieved to see you. You look--well, stunning. You always do, but--”

That was beyond surprising and it must have shown on her face, because his face grew as red as his hair. 

A hand came across her line of vision. “Jughead Jones.” His expression was fathomless, and his tone was clipped. 

Archie’s response seemed perfunctory, clasping the offered hand for a shake. “Of course, Mr. Jones. Archie Andrews.”

As Betty watched this exchange, she realized that hers and Jughead’s intertwined hands had moved into view, and that Archie’s eyes had briefly noted it. 

Jughead did not hide their hands again. “I know you from the trials, of course. You are friends with Moore and Mantle--and Betty, of course.”

Archie nodded. “That’s right.”

“You are doing quite well,” Jughead said. “Father has expressed an interest in taking you into his department.”

“Thank you. That’s encouraging to me.” His gaze swung back to her, as if expecting her to say something. 

Betty felt confused, rather than uneasy, by his _ wholly _ unexpected attentions. “Did Veronica approach you with an invitation?” she asked, hoping to redivert _ whatever _this was. 

Archie nodded. “She did and I honestly was not sure about coming, but she was--” he paused and gave it a moment’s thought. “Persuasive. Also, Munroe and Reggie were entirely convinced that I should take the opportunity.”

It was an opportunity, indeed, to be mingling amongst the rich and powerful of the Kin. 

Dinner was served and it was a revelation in itself, with the Lodge’s Mexican heritage showcased to everyone in attendance. They were served small portions of _caldo de siete mares,_ _tostadas _topped with shrimp, tomatillos, and fresh vegetables, _tamales _stuffed with rabbit meat and _mole negro, _and spiced fruits. But the crowning dish was the _barbacoa, _a specially roasted lamb, served alongside chayote, mushrooms, and a maize tortilla. And as if that weren’t filling enough, they followed it with a beautiful dish called _chiles en nogada, _a stuffed poblano pepper with a rich walnut cream sauce, topped with pomegranates and parsley.

Betty had never had such flavorful food in her life. The servings were appropriate, small if desired, for there was always a server ready to refill empty plates, and Betty made room lest something wondrous got served anew. 

Jughead, as expected, barrelled right through the servings, agreeing to offers of seconds. Manners dictated that they were to refrain from accepting a third helping, but Betty knew that were it not for etiquette, Jughead could have very well consumed more than three helpings. Betty’s recollection of Jughead’s off-hand mention of the food suddenly made all the sense, and while she did admit to playing a part to Jughead’s less ornery mood, Veronica might have had better success with Jughead in the past if she had sold the feast and not the festivities. 

Dessert was flan and tea, accompanied by baskets of churros. 

Betty stifled a giggle as Jughead reached for a churros and Archie watched him in disbelief. 

“Where are you putting it all?” Archie asked, for he was right to be aghast. Jughead did not present as someone who ate inordinate amounts of food. “That is your third one after having inhaled your flan!” 

“And do you have a problem with that, Andrews?” Jughead asked, stuffing the churros in his mouth with deliberate defiance.

Archie frowned. “The rest of us have to put effort into maintaining a certain physique.”

“How very conscientious of you.”

Betty tried not to laugh. Even younger, Jughead complained the loudest when made to exercise their cardiovascular fitness. Charles had been relentless on that matter, and given Jughead’s physique, she had no reason to believe he had not kept up Charles’s regimen, but while some would have adjusted their eating habits to make the best out of their exertions, Jughead’s mind-boggling metabolism seemed to ensure that he never would. He would always eat as much as he pleased. 

“Did you not enjoy dinner, Andrews?” she asked to lighten the sting of Jughead’s sarcasm. 

“I did.” His grin and the quick flash of his gaze implied that his enjoyment of the meal was not solely based on the food. 

Betty bit her lip, resisting the urge to scold him for flirting with her, when he had so clearly been asked here by Veronica. What a Casanova Archie was turning out to be, as she had also noticed him throwing charming looks at the lady on the other side of him. 

As guests began to rise from the dinner table, Betty asked Jughead to take her for a walk. 

Grinning, he led her out of the dining hall, across the ballroom which was just now filling with people, and down a secluded hallway leading to the wraparound balcony. 

The sounds of the city were distant and the ballroom music floated from the openings. Light filtered through draped glass doors, illuminating their pathway. Immediately, she could tell that Jughead’s shoulders loosened, his tension melting away as they left the ballroom crowds behind them.

“Do you really think that Enhancements are for the weak?” she asked, eyeing him for his reaction. “Sabrina gave me one that night, remember? To mask my Daemon from discovery.”

He chuckled. “I was lying to Toni. I respect a good Enhancement. Kinsmen earn it, after all, but I could not go to her--or any Inker, for anything that might require them to study Elemiah. Not then, not now, because then they would know.”

“Know?”

“That I am Bound, and then they might know that _ we _are Bound.”

It dawned on Betty then, and she recalled all those years ago that even before Sabrina painted the Daemon on her back, she already knew Sabathiel would be Bound to another Daemon. She knew Elemiah would be Bound, as well, and while it was never confirmed whether Sabrina discovered that they were Bound to _ each other, _there was a distinct possibility that the similarity of their Daemons had clued her in. 

She grew ponderous and Jughead might have detected her dampened mood. 

“Do not worry yourself about it tonight. Come, let us not waste the music.” He gave her a twirl and she giggled as he dipped her.

The music grew louder and more rhythmic, and on cue, Jughead led her into a simple and gliding Waltz. They swayed to the melody and Betty smiled up at him adoringly. 

“When did you learn to dance?” she asked. 

“Academy. They teach us etiquette, literature, and music appreciation, as well. They want us to be cultured Peace Dealers.”

It amused her that even in such an academic institution such as Stonewall, teaching its young men to catch rogue spirits, destructive entities, abominations, and wayward paranormalists, the academy would bother to teach them how to be gentlemen, too. But given the environment at the Guild, it made so much sense.

“It has its applications apart from making us eligible bachelors,” he continued, noting her smirk. “Dancing refines our coordination for such things as fencing and individual combat. Literature sharpens our minds, and music—well, who doesn’t like music?”

And just as he said it, the music picked up its tempo to a much livelier tune and Jughead seamlessly shifted them to a Portland. Betty could not help but gasp in delighted surprise. 

She laughed as she followed along to the hops and skips of the music, and when he transitioned them to a Polish Gallop, she was completely enamored by his skill at leading her into the turns and steps. When the music ended, she threw her arms over his shoulders and rewarded him with a kiss. The applause in the background from within the ballroom felt apropos. 

When they separated, they grinned at one another, nose to nose. 

“You are certainly in a much better mood, light foot,” she breathed.

“All was tolerable, actually, until I had to endure Andrews.” He pulled her closer, one hand splayed on her back and the other firmly around her waist.

She liked how he held her, like he was proving a point. “The nerve of him, really. It was only your third churros,” she teased, softly.

He chuckled, his eyes taking in the curve of her neck and shoulders. “Funny how he takes issue with my eating habits when he can’t seem to restrain himself with the ladies… with _ my lady.” _

She pinched his chin with tender pressure. “Hmmm… the hand-holding was not subtle.”

“He showed no subtlety, so why should I?” he murmured back, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “If he leaned any closer at dinner, I might have been moved to a more drastic means of communication.”

The warmth of his lips against her skin rippled desire through her body and she closed her eyes, finding no need for further discussion. 

They had moved between the windows, her back pressed against the walls with Jughead’s body caging hers, and she smiled as he kissed her with slow cadence. Unlike their past stolen moments, they had the luxury of privacy now, even in a great house filled with people. 

The sound of strings faded from her mind’s ear and all she could process was the way his lips moved against hers, how he pulled her closer by the waist and by the back of her neck, and how his breathing had gone deeper. 

She could feel his fingers strumming the ties of her corset where it met the small of her back. 

Jughead Jones had appetites and it wasn’t just food. 

They carried on for several more minutes, and Betty grew heady with this continued intimacy. The more they kept kissing, the more dissatisfied she grew. She wanted more of him, and suddenly her beautiful gown felt restricting. 

She wanted to wrap herself around him and feel his skin against hers, but even with the specially modified and reduced layers of undergarments that the Kin have adapted, she knew, there was absolutely no means to go any further than this prolonged touching of lips. 

She could, of course, ask him to take her home, and he would perhaps comply, but his absence would not only be noted by his parents, but perhaps by Veronica, who was likely going to hunt them down sooner or later. 

When they separated, their lips were still touching, their breaths still passing into each other.

“We must go back inside,” he gasped. 

“Must we?” she whispered, pressing her chest brazenly against his. “Are you not enjoying yourself, my lord?”

A soft rumble vibrated from his throat as he heaved her even closer, his lips pressing just beneath her throat and moving dangerously lower. She gave a soft moan of encouragement, but he did not venture any further.

The gentle suction of his mouth told her he wished he could. “I am enjoying myself far, far too much. We must get ourselves back into the ballroom.”

She gave a soft whine, gripping the lapels of his coat as she gave him a look that perhaps begged for him to be irresponsible, placing that burden on him. 

He did have the wherewithal to look miserable about it. “Oh, my love, I would rather spend all evening with you just like this, but any longer and we will cause a scandal.”

She laughed softly. It was the least of her worries, but as a practical matter, it was a distraction she could do without. She did not want gossip to overshadow her enjoyment of the festivities, and it would be a shame if her accomplishments at the Guild were to be marginalized because she could not temper her desire for him. 

Reluctantly, she removed herself from his embrace. “Shall I go in ahead?”

He nodded, kissing the back of her hand before he let her go. 

Resigned to the requirements of etiquette, she turned and glided back towards the ballroom doors. 

Guests and attendants were far too preoccupied to notice her rejoining the crowds, and there was an intermission in the dancing, so she was able to find Jellybean speaking excitedly to her friends. 

“Betty!” Jellybean cried excitedly, pulling her by the arm. “I was hoping I would find you! I had wanted to introduce you to my friends and colleagues!”

Betty smiled pleasantly as she took in their faces--Jellybean’s so mentioned Intrepid Team of Thermodynamic Swots. 

Dr. Curdle, Jr. and Dr. Doiley were indeed as awkward as Jellybean said they would be, with Dr. Doiley having to be reminded to shake her hand and Dr. Curdle telling her, without any sort of prompting, that “dead bodies made moaning sounds when they were moved.”

“His father owns a funerary,” Jellybean quickly explained. “But Dr. Curdle, Jr. is a scientist at the Menhir Aether Plant.”

The fourth member of Jellybean’s team was Dr. Melody Valentine, who worked with Jellybean at the Guild’s Office of Invention. 

“My pet project is to observe and explore applications for how aether, sound waves, and certain stones react with each other,” Dr. Valentine said. 

Awkwardness aside, they were fascinating in their professions and their shared passion for thermodynamics. They were, as Jellybean called them, dedicated to making alternative forms of energy, such as lightning, more accessible to the masses. 

“We have a working model for a generator,” Dr. Doiley said, proudly. “But we need funding to build it up to scale--for a more impactful demonstration. It is decidedly unimpressive to explode potatoes and make fairy lights blink.”

“Nobody wishes to give us money,” said Dr. Curdle in his everlastingly odd intonation. 

Jellybean frowned. “You don’t know that. Ms. Lodge has introduced us to many wealthy people tonight, and only half of them seemed disinterested.”

“The half that was impressed appeared to think us amusing for daring to challenge what the Menhir so cheaply offers,” Dr. Curdle grumbled. 

Dr. Valentine rolled her eyes. “We were quite clear that this alternative source of energy is for cities which _ do not _have the fortune of naturally intersecting ley lines like New Kin, Nairobi, or Beijing. And we know that the aether is particularly potent here in New Kin because of the extraordinary engineering of the Menhir.”

Jellybean nodded. “We even based the models on the Menhir’s engineering, so we can better illustrate how it’s possible to deliver up to scale with generally the same cost--over time, of course. Set up and transition costs may have to be subsidized for a time so that consumers might not feel it...” 

“Lightning energy is for the rest of the world,” Dr. Valentine gently interrupted. “For those without, and if any of these wealthy capitalists have any sense, they’d quickly be able to compute how profitable this venture could be because _ more people _could use it.”

“That’s right!” Jellybean cried. “You see how it must be Melody who speaks for us? Unlike Curdle and Doiley, she has a more positive outlook.”

Betty had no doubt that Jellybean’s team only needed one opportunity to prove their findings beneficial and, as Dr. Valentine said, profitable. 

Her attentions were drawn to the balcony entryway, where Jughead had reemerged, and she was calculating ways to call his attention when Cheryl emerged from the crowd and said, “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Cheryl slipped her arm around Betty’s and she looked around the group, which had gone silent at her appearance. “If you egg-heads are quite finished with her, would you be so kind as to let me take her off your socially deficient hands?”

“Cheryl!” Betty gasped in outrage, pulling her arm away. “That was terribly unnecessary and mean!”

Cheryl looked genuinely surprised. “What? I am asking permission, aren’t I?”

Jellybean rolled her eyes. “I shall see you later, Betty. Don’t worry about Cheryl. We’ve no time for the likes of her who have no basic understanding of scientific principles.”

Dr. Doiley stuck his tongue out at Cheryl and Cheryl shot him a fierce glare that had him instantly cowering. Jellybean stepped between them and immediately shot back with a glare of her own. 

Betty ushered Cheryl away lest they cause a scene. 

“I’d have ground Doiley beneath my heel,” Cheryl hissed as Betty put a distance between them. 

Betty frowned. “You are being a bully.”

Cheryl lifted her nose and shrugged, unapologetically. “Please. I cannot abide by Dr. Doiley and Dr. Curdle’s oddness--they make _ me _uncomfortable. If you ask me, Dr. Valentine ought to wise up and rid herself of those misfits. As for Ms. Jones, I can stand her as much as I can stand her brother, which as you know, is barely. But be honest--they were boring you to death. I saved you from them.”

“I happened to be enjoying my discussion with them very much!” Betty said, planting her hands on her hips. “And I’m sorry Dr. Doiley and Dr. Curdle makes you feel uncomfortable, but if ‘oddness’ offends you, then _ you’re _the bore!” 

Cheryl scoffed. “Oh, pish! Let’s not fight on account of those swots. I’m sure you found their discussion riveting--until Mr. Jones walked in from the balcony--that _ you _ came from earlier, as well.”

Betty could feel heat creep up her neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t busy myself with the relationships of others, but I should remind you that while it isn’t a rule, the Guild might find issue with Peace Dealers having relations with one another, particularly if one of them is the Senior of the other at trials--particularly if they are to be partners. I don’t wish to know the details but you might want to be more discreet.”

It did not escape Betty that Cheryl had deflected from her bullying just now, but her concerns were not insignificant and Betty would do well to heed Cheryl’s advice. It was not Cheryl’s fault that she had no concept of the bonds that held them. 

It wasn’t unreasonable to assume that in the past, when the Bound were more common, lovers and perhaps spouses worked together all the time, but she did not expect Cheryl to understand that. “I will remember your advice--should I fall in love with a colleague at work. Is that all you wish to speak to me about?”

“No.” Cheryl took her by the arm and pulled her with her. “Mother wishes to meet you, and she happens to be with the Lodges at the moment, so this is the perfect opportunity to introduce you to them all.”

Betty stifled a sigh, looking over her shoulder to find Jughead. 

“Jones will find you,” Cheryl hissed somewhat impatiently. “No doubt that whatever it is you did in that balcony would have him distracted all evening.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Betty said in a clipped tone. 

“Oh, please. Your innocent act will not work with me. You strike me as a woman who knows what she wants and acts on it. If I did not know any better, I’d say you’re one of _ us.” _

_ “Us?” _

Cheryl scoffed. “Toni and I--peculiar. Queer.”

Betty pursed her lips. “You don’t know that I’m not.”

This seemed to amuse Cheryl, stopping them in their tracks to look at her. “Oh? Intriguing!” She looked at Betty from the top of her chignon to the hems of her skirt. “Honestly, it suddenly makes _ so much _sense!”

“A story for another day,” Betty replied, hastily. It was a truth she had not had the opportunity to discuss with anyone close to her, so if she were to discuss its particulars, she wanted to do so with Jughead, first. Not Cheryl. Not Toni. “Is Veronica with them? Your mother and the Lodges?”

“Yes!” Cheryl replied. She linked their arms again, and Betty noticed that Cheryl’s clawed grip hand turned into a gentler hold.

Betty was introduced to Penelope Blossom, Cheryl’s mother. 

She had the same red hair as Cheryl, and she seemed far colder and more ruthless than her daughter, which was objectively frightening. Her twin brother, Jason Blossom, was almost as frosty. Whatever warmth Cheryl possessed, it wasn’t learned from her family. 

It was Veronica who introduced her to the Lodges. Hiram Lodge was quick to talk about her trials, how the Guildsmen and women were all excited for her continued success. Cheryl preened, reminding them that she had been the one to recruit Betty. 

Hiram gave Cheryl her due, remarking on her impeccable instincts. “The Guild needs a fresh outlook, a means to open opportunities to more people--more _ women. _I like the direction you are leading the Guild in, Ms. Blossom.”

Cheryl beamed. “See, mumsy? I told you this would be a brilliant idea.”

Betty always knew that she was a pawn for Cheryl’s ambitions, but Peace Dealing had always served as a calling rather than a career. Any advocacy attached to it would only serve to make it a more worthy endeavor for her. 

“And what an example Ms. Cooper is!” Veronica prompted. “She carries all of us forward--oh, look! There he is! I knew I saw him earlier, but I was afraid he’d escaped after dinner! Jughead!”

He _ looked _like he was escaping, for sure, and that Veronica had caught him. He had little choice but to approach, bowing properly at the ladies and shaking Hiram’s hand. 

“Ladies, Primary Guildsman,” he said. “My compliments for such an elegant celebration. Ms. Lodge--glowing, as usual. I hope your birthday is everything you expected it to be.”

“Everything and more, Mr. Jones,” she replied, pleased, no doubt, that he did not greet the elders with any detectable sarcasm. “Mother, father, Mr. Jones and his family are hosting Ms. Cooper here in New Kin, so add his enthusiastic presence at this party to Ms. Cooper’s list of accomplishments.”

Soft laughter followed her gentle tease and Betty noticed Jughead biting his lip as he grinned gamely with the group. It must be hurting him not to respond with his usually sardonic wit. 

Feeling sorry for him, she linked her arm back around his. “I think your menu at dinner had more to do with Jughead’s enthusiasm than I did. Our compliments to the chef, Prime Consort Lodge. I have never had such a delicious meal.”

The Prime Consort delightedly acknowledged her compliments, speaking at length about how they chose the menu. As the discussion floated into culture and tradition, the dancing music showed signs of restarting, and Veronica hastily told them all that she wished to dance, and that she was taking Cheryl, Jason, Jughead, and Betty with her back to the dance floor. 

Before they could leave, Penelope said to Betty, “I knew your father, once upon a time. I heard he was lost at sea several years ago.”

Betty nodded. “He was. I never really knew him before that.”

Penelope made a sound as she lifted her eyebrow. “A shame. Hurry along, then. The dancing is about to begin.”

Betty paused for a heartbeat before joining the group on the ballroom floor. 

Veronica found Archie, declaring that he would be her dance partner. Toni brought a fellow Inker with her as a partner to complete their four-pair group as other groups formed around them. 

The dance was a very basic Quadrillion, without need of any particular grace or skill, only memory and common sense, and she had to credit Jughead for playing along like the mature adult he was, even if he was frowning the entire time. After the dance, he did _ not _clap with the rest of them, which, all things considered, Betty allowed him to get away with. 

Veronica stayed with them the rest of the evening, Archie latched to her arm, and while there appeared to be moments he was completely besotted by Veronica, his eyes did often wander to other ladies in attendance. 

It raised Betty’s eyebrow, and once, she and Cheryl caught him at the same time, which told Betty she wasn’t the only one who had noticed. 

Betty also noticed that Elio and Nick were in attendance and she could not resist asking Veronica about it. “How do you know Mr. Grande and Mr. St. Claire?”

Veronica made a sound of disgust. “They are the sons of my father’s associates from his railroad construction business. Elio and Nick are positively intolerable.” She waved her fingers at them and smiled, which they responded to with nods of acknowledgement. Her smile withered the moment their gazes turned elsewhere. “Deplorable, I should say. I have heard rumors of the things they’ve done, particularly to impressionable young women, but it’s always a story from a friend of a friend. I would steer clear from them if I were you, Betty.”

“I think they ought to steer clear of Cooper,” Archie said, laughing. “She broke St. Claire’s nose and dislocated Grande’s shoulder, not to mention she knocked out his tooth.”

Betty frowned. “To be clear, I did not dislocate Grande’s shoulder. That is an exaggeration.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of, _ ma choupette,” _Cheryl said. 

“I would prefer not to be misrepresented as some… _ bloodthirsty _prizefighter,” Betty grumbled. 

“What you label as bloodthirsty is what Cheryl would refer to as competitive,” Jughead said with his signature sarcastic drawl. 

“Perhaps it bears mentioning that broken noses and dislodged teeth cause more blood than dislocated joints,” Toni pointed out. 

Toni really would defend her belle to the utmost. 

“Nevertheless,” Veronica interjected in a soothing tone. “They are vicious little beasts and we must all be wary of them.”

Elio looked away from his group and caught Betty’s eye. He did not look away and he may have even smiled, but Betty did not smile back until he finally looked away himself. 

The party’s formalities were completed and now the guests were free to mingle and go off in their separate conversations, with proprieties loosening and the light dimming for a more intimate atmosphere. 

The men began to dwindle from the ballroom to lounge in the smoke room. 

The smell of tobacco hung pungent in the air, already. There would be brandy, too. Or perhaps rum, since Veronica mentioned how her father had a thriving and reputed rum business, as well. 

“It is that hour,” she said to Jughead in what she admitted was a teasing tone. She knew he hated these things--having to take himself away to join the men for what he considered a wholly unnecessary ritual separation. “You might like the Lodge rum combined with those Cuban cigars.”

“Please,” he grumbled so that only she may hear. “You know I would rather spend the rest of the evening with you.”

That was always the case. Even when they were young, Jughead did not like going to the smoke room to make inroads with powerful men. 

“I recall that this is around the time I rescue you by asking you to help me find an adventure,” Betty said, grinning. 

“Oh, but I’ve grown since then. Now I just want to go home.”

She laughed, resisting the urge to hold his hand and drag him down this great house’s winding hallways. 

“Did you just say you wanted to go home?” Veronica asked, cutting through their conversation. “And did you just say you wish to find an adventure?” 

They exchanged sheepish looks, but Veronica seemed to have been inspired. “Would you all like a tour of the premises? Sprawling hallways and secret doors?”

Betty’s shoulders perked. A tour with interesting nooks and crannies would be better than staying here and pretending they liked to gossip and giggle about possible intrigue and scandal. 

Jughead’s facial expression conveyed that he’d _ still _rather go home, and Betty understood where his unease lay. Going on this tour meant he had to put up with Archie Andrews, who seemed entirely too comfortable being among a bevy of lovely young ladies, but she was always intrigued by large houses and its possible secrets, and Jughead knew this. 

One look at her face and he heaved a martyr-like sigh, rolling his eyes and chuckling in surrender. “It sounds fascinating, Veronica.” 

“Wonderful! Let us sneak away, and later we can have a spot of rum, all of us. There is a secret door to the wine cellar that father thinks I know nothing about.”

Betty was almost embarrassed that Jughead so easily indulged her whims. 

They left the ballroom and followed Veronica into the quiet and dark hallways of the Lodge townhouse. 

***************

They left the Lodges just shortly after midnight, and upon arriving home, Gladys, FP, and Jellybean swiftly retired to their rooms. 

Jughead escorted Betty to her door, and as they stood at its threshold, Betty thought about the rum she had consumed, and how it made her feel extraordinarily bold.

She turned and tugged at his jacket. 

Even as she felt a heaviness upon her eyes, she wanted to feel his lips once more, reliving the passionate way he held her in the balcony. “It is a chilly night, Juggie. Sit with me by the fire. Let us keep each other warm.” 

She swayed and she had to hold the door to steady herself, but she missed, and he dove to catch her before she fell completely.

A soft chuckle rumbled from his throat and she giggled in mild embarrassment. “I meant to do that! I promise, I am as graceful as a ballerina.” As her head spun she clung to him more firmly. “Ooh, that _ rum _must be made with fairy dust, I had naught but a dram.”

“I see that your tolerance for spirits remains exclusive to the spectral variety,” he said. The tease was so tender that he whispered it in her ear, and even intoxicated, she could see the affection in his gaze.

She touched the tip of his nose with her finger. “And you are--” she paused, searching for the word. “Sober. As a _ judge. _Did you have any of the rum at all?”

He shook his head, grinning. “Not a drop.”

Was he ever so temperate? 

It was then she remembered that FP had been a horrible lush, and that Jughead suffered the consequences of his father’s drunken behavior. She gasped, a wave of mortification spreading through her. “Oh, oh Juggie. I am being positively disgraceful, aren’t I?”

“Not particularly.”

“You must _ hate _me!” she gasped, trying to push herself away, and she did, momentarily, but she swayed again and Jughead had to catch her once more. 

“There now,” he said, gently and ushering her through the door. “I could never hate you. Why would you think that?”

“I think I’m drunk,” she said to begin her explanation. She blinked multiple times as she said this, for her vision was blurring slightly.

He pursed his lips, and she wondered if he was trying not to laugh. “That is possible, yes.”

“And your father--you hated him when he was drunk.” 

“Ah.” He seemed genuinely surprised by her train of thought. “Well, you aren’t wrong there. I did hate him, but his drunk and your drunk are two completely different situations, and a lot has happened since. I have gained perspective on the matter of… excessive consumption of substances.” He sat her on her bed and even as her mind grew lethargic, she wondered if she could tempt him to stay. 

When he took her hand and he kissed the back of it, she knew he was leaving. She tightened her grip on his hand. 

“Stay, my lord,” she whispered. “I promise not to tell anyone. Your reputation is safe with me.” She giggled and he smiled as he knelt by her knee. 

“I feel safest when I am with you,” he said, looking up at her with his lovely blue eyes. “But tonight you need sleep.”

It was a gentle dismissal, but she was feeling too drowsy to take too much offense. “I should have skipped the rum, shouldn’t have I?”

He chuckled. “Well, I heard it was good rum.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps…” 

He got to his feet, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Goodnight, my love.”

“Goodnight.”

She barely saw him leaving as she kicked off her shoes, loosened the ties of her dress, and then her corset, and promptly curled into her bed, fast asleep. 

***************

Sundays were quiet in the Jones house. Betty found that the Joneses preferred to go their own ways when at home, evidenced by the breakfast table that was laid out with food, but absent of its members. 

She saw that Jughead’s place at the table was empty of his plate, so he must have broken his fast already. 

Piling fruits, buttered toast, and jam on her plate, she wondered where she might look for Jughead first. 

“He is likely in the garden.”

Betty almost threw her plate in the air, whirling at the sound of Kevin’s voice. “Goodness! I _ did not _notice you there. Forgive--”

Kevin waved her words away. “I was not here. I am very discreet and I present myself when I know I’m needed. Sometimes I present myself for entertainment. _ My _entertainment.” He winked and Betty felt herself blush at the memory of him catching them carry on at the top of the stairs. 

She laughed in spite of herself, eyeing Kevin’s Daemon, which was perched on his shoulder. Even with its humanoid body, its characteristics were distinctly borrowed from a moth. “Do you always know where everyone is, then?”

“People keep their habits at home,” Kevin replied. “My powers are of observation, not augering. You might like to take your breakfast in the garden, anyway. It is lovely out there this time of the day.”

Betty thanked him and made her way to the doors leading out to the back. 

As she stepped through the french doors, she took in the small but wondrous garden space encased within its brick walls. The open air above made it feel vast, with the wind touching the gently swaying leaves and the sunlight streaming where the shadow of buildings did not block it.

Topiary cones lined the narrow walkway, shaded by green and flowery arches. As she passed through, she saw the hanging pods of orchids bursting with bright colors. At the end of the short walkway, the garden opened to a grassy space, bordered with tall plants, colorful trees, and long-stemmed blooms. 

At the center of this space was a tête-à-tête loveseat, upon which Jughead sat, the book of sigils splayed open on his crossed legs. He seemed at rest in his poet’s blouse, an old coat tossed to the side on a bush. On the nearby coffee table was the slate, where he had practiced some of the sigils. Tea, likely cold, was laid out in a small pot and a cup. His cup was barely touched, by the looks of it. 

He looked up from the book at the sound of her steps and the knot between his eyes disappeared as he saw her, his smile instantaneous. 

“Good morning, lovely.”

Nobody had ever greeted her quite like that, and even blushing, she tilted his face up by his chin and pecked a kiss on his lips, before settling herself on the other half of the loveseat. 

She picked up her toast and set her plate aside, eyeing the book as she did so. “You stole that from my bedroom while I was asleep.”

He winked at her. “I learned how to steal things from the best.”

She grinned and observed that he was studying the mind reading sigil. “You should have roused me.”

He tugged lightly on a strand of her ponytailed hair, playing with a lock between his fingers. “I couldn’t. You looked a picture, at rest in your party finery. It was a shame to ruin that.”

A blush crept higher up her cheeks, and she wondered if he was teasing, but he seemed in earnest, and this was Jughead, who had seen her in clumsy nightgowns, tangled hair, and even dripping wet with rain. She need not feel embarrassed of him catching her in her unguarded moments. 

She had bathed off last night’s trappings and changed into her more comfortable old country gowns, tying her hair up in a simple ponytail--a style that her mother abhorred. Alice said it made her look like a country bumpkin, and when Betty told her she was, Alice looked like she wanted to smack her daughter’s mouth for saying such a thing. 

None of that mattered now, so far away from Alice. She felt comfortable and Jughead seemed to adore playing with her hair. “Was I a disgrace after I’ve had the rum?”

He chuckled. “Not at all. The others were too preoccupied with their own intoxication and you appeared fully functional by comparison.”

She sighed, but smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I should have said no to the rum altogether, then perhaps we could have had one last dance in the balcony before we retired for the evening.”

His eyebrow arched ever so slightly, but he said nothing, even as she saw the corner of his lip lift in a tiny half smile. 

Betty had not had intimate experiences with other men, so she had limited basis for comparison, but she expected that he might be more open to reminders of their passionate moments, and he was certainly fully engrossed in the endeavor last night. Perhaps she became less skilled at it during prolonged passionate embraces.

She might get better with practice. “Was my dancing inadequate?”

He seemed surprised and then confused by her question. “Your dancing?”

“My dancing. In the balcony.” She could feel the heat rising up her collar, but she was always a woman who took pride in what she could _ do. _Her physicality was something she excelled in, and her persistence had proven, time and time again, to yield results. If she needed improvement on the matter of stoking his desire, she would tackle it with the same determination as anything else she does. 

It took him a moment, but when her true meaning dawned on him, she could see the blush rise up his own cheeks, and then his gaze softened as he shifted, the book sliding off his lap and toppling to the grass beneath his feet. His knuckle brushed her jaw and she realized that she had tension on her shoulders as she felt it recede. 

“Your dancing was perfect,” he whispered. “Never doubt that I’d wish to dance with you over and over again.”

She bit her lip to restrain her smile. “I can be better. With more practice.”

“We shall practice together as much as we can.”

She looked up at him, hopefully. “Have you had much practice before?”

He tilted his gaze, a warning with his look.

“I won’t be mad, I _ promise.” _She tugged at the laces of his poet’s shirt, resisting the urge to touch the dip at the base of his throat.

He made light circles with his thumb on the underside of her wrist and it sent shivers down her back. “I have not had much practice since the Southside. And over here, I was too preoccupied with the academy, with my career, and when I--” He paused and sighed. “The experiences I’ve had in the city were unmemorable.”

There was something odd about the way he said “unmemorable.” Like he meant something else. 

“And Toni?” she asked. “Were you close with her?”

He seemed to find mild amusement in her question. “We thought we could be. Toni and I are alike in many, many ways. We met long ago in the Southside and we frequented the same circles--the gangs and toughs that got me through my life there, and so when father brought her to the city, it seemed _ logical, _ in fact, that we would become _ something, _but you and I both know that logic does not equal passion. That fateful evening she kissed me under a romantic starlit sky, it became immediately clear that we were not meant for one another.”

Betty was more relieved than she was willing to admit. “And then she found Cheryl?”

He dipped his chin in a nod. “She has not looked back since.”

It was clear by the way Cheryl and Toni looked at one another that their love would endure. 

“And you? Have you had dancing partners before?” he asked, cheekily. 

She felt shy, suddenly, laying bare what little sexual history she had, but she wanted to tell him everything, so that he might know her better, and so that he might understand that she would hide nothing from him.

He seemed to interpret her pause for reluctance. “You need not tell me anything if you do not want to.”

“I wish to tell you everything.”

The circling of his thumb resumed and he said, softly. “Go on.”

“Boys—” she sighed _ “—men _ are _ infuriating.” _

He laughed softly. “I shan't argue.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Not about this. “You and Charles spoiled me of my expectations of them, and it is true what I say--they thought me too odd and more trouble than I was worth. It was clear, even trying my very best to seem obedient and predictable that I had a mind of my own. They called me disagreeable. They did not want me.”

He played with her hair again. “They are fools.”

“Their priorities did not align with mine,” she said, kindly. She believed that given the chance, she might have found someone who could have piqued her interest, but she was never open to the notion of meeting other men. “You are the only man I have ever kissed.”

He seemed mildly surprised, though she could not tell if it was because he thought she might have kissed other men or if it was because he fully understood what she meant with her pointed words. 

But he did not interrupt her, so she continued. 

“I was Chic at the time. Fifteen, and I was admittedly distracted by my surroundings.” She shrugged. “It was my fault. I let my guard down. I was entertained by the festivities--in the Vice Quarter. There was a celebration, with paper dragons and loud drums, firecrackers and moon cakes. A girl asked me to dance and I could not say no for fear of attracting even more attention. So we danced, and it was the most fun I’ve had in a long while.”

Betty remembered the night lit with sparklers and fires burning in rainbow colors. Music filled the streets and everything was strewn in red. She remembered the girl’s long, silken black hair pulled free of its pins, cascading down her shoulders and how Betty ran her hands through them, liking the way the strands fell between her fingers. Betty remembered her scent, too, of apple blossoms and cherries, mingling with the smell of gunpowder wafting in the air. 

“After the dancing, she took me with her to be alone, and though I went with her, I did not want to mislead her.” She paused, gauging Jughead’s reaction. He listened, waiting for her to continue. “I explained that I wasn’t a boy, and she explained to me that she knew.”

Jughead seemed ponderous, and unperturbed. Betty had expected it of him, and she was grateful for it. She knew that not everyone was so accepting, and that this was a part of her that she might never tell her own mother. 

“I didn’t leave, Juggie,” she finally said. “I did not want to.” 

They spent hours together, her and Ying Yue. She remembered the sighs, the softness, and the tender caresses. She felt safe, and wanted. It did not feel wrong, but even then, knowing that she was connecting with this young woman, mind and body, it was too much at once to understand. All she knew was that this beautiful stranger was making her feel things she’d never felt before and that for one night, it was just the two of them. 

Betty let out a breath and felt freed. The truth had that effect. “I never saw her again.”

He seemed to be taking in every detail of her face, as if he were seeing her in a different light, but it was a discovery for him rather than a shock, and when he cupped her face, perhaps to feel with the pads of his fingers if the shape of her had changed, she pressed her hand over his. 

“Did you want to?” he finally asked. “See her again?” 

Betty had thought about Jughead’s question many times, and she wondered sometimes if Ying Yue hadn’t just been passing through, herself. Betty learned a great many things from Ying Yue, but more distinctly, she learned more about herself. 

“She felt trapped, she had said, and alone, like I did. We both wished we had the courage to throw caution to the wind and let the rules be damned, and we saw that in each other. She and I were a moment in each other’s lives. I will never forget her, but what brought us together that night can’t be replicated with her or with anyone else.”

His gaze was filled with longing. Now both his hands cupped her face. “Not even me?”

Betty felt her heart crack, just a little. She hadn’t told him quite enough how much he meant to her. It had always seemed to her that he knew, because she had been pining for him for as long as she knew him, but that wasn’t how Jughead thought. Jughead, who grew up in the Southside, whose mother left him, whose father was a drunk, and whose schoolmates treated him like refuse, never took things for granted. 

She wrapped her hands around his wrists. “Ying Yue was a book, Juggie. She took my imagination places I’ve never been, but you--you broke the chains and set me free.” 

She urged him closer and their lips met in a soft caress. He tasted of the strawberries at breakfast, with a hint of earl grey tea. Their slow, lingering kiss grew more insistent, and Betty felt the instant tightening in the pit of her belly. She crumpled his blouse in her fists, the pads of her fingers feeling the warmth of his skin underneath, letting them trail along the column of his throat and chest. 

“Betty,” he whispered, a shuddering breath blowing against her lips. He seemed to have lost his train of thought.

“Do you wish me to stop?” she asked as she kissed the underside of his jaw. 

“Gods, no,” he whispered back. “I want you.”

A distinct ache blossomed between her thighs and she gasped in soft surprise. 

He made a sound, like a man undone, and his thumb tugged at the bottom of her lip as he kissed her, loving the slow massage of his tongue against hers. She could feel his fingers digging lightly against her nape and his arm circling her waist to pull her even closer. 

When his kiss travelled to the tender spot beneath her ear, she gave a soft moan. She wanted more. Much more, and she tilted her chin back to give him more access to her skin. She took his hand and moved it over her breast, and his answering squeeze was coupled with a soft groan.

“Not here,” he whispered, desperately taking both her hands into his. 

Betty felt the gentle tug, like he was prompting them to get up, to go someplace else, and she needed that privacy, where they would not be interrupted. But the sound of a door opening and closing shattered through their haze. They broke free of one another, and even before she saw him, she heard Kevin calling to her. 

“Betty, Representative Jones is asking for you.”

Betty frantically tried to steady her breathing, just as Jughead took the book from his feet and opened it on his lap. She might know what he was trying to hide. 

It was kind of Kevin, she supposed, to announce himself so soon, just to give them time to compose themselves. 

When he arrived, Betty knew her face was still flushed, but he showed no indication of noticing it. “She is in the drawing room. Shall I tell her you will arrive shortly?”

That would be wise, Betty thought. “Yes, please. I won’t be long.”

Kevin nodded and was about to leave when he said, “Jughead, your book is upside down.”

His face was the reddest Betty had ever seen. “Yes, I was looking at the sigil.”

“Very good.” Kevin left, and Betty could have sworn his shoulders were shaking as he walked down the covered path. 

Jughead threw Kevin’s retreating figure a look of pure contempt. When he looked back at her, he looked defeated. “God, Betty.”

She bit her lip to keep from grinning. She failed. “I am sorry.”

“No, you are not, but don’t apologize.”

A giggle bubbled from her lips. “For having to go, to see your mother, not for... “ Her eyes shifted quickly to the book on his lap. “I must go.”

He sighed, long and suffering. “You must.”

She pressed one last kiss on his cheek, giggling as she hurried back into the house.

***************

Gladys wanted her company at the clothiers, to fit a new suit, she said. “I often go alone. Jellybean has no patience for such things and the boys are unreliable on the matter of women’s fashion. I thought your opinion would be valuable, and it would be a good opportunity to get to know one another, don’t you think? Are you available to accompany me?”

How could she say no? Apart from the fact that Gladys possibly so rarely got declined when she made requests, Betty had always been intrigued by Gladys--how she reconciled her rough upbringing with the more refined requirements of a representative, so Betty’s curiosity had certainly gotten the better of her. 

However much she would have loved to spend time with Jughead that day, especially considering their delicious encounter in the garden, Jughead would forgive her--or indulge her, this little exploration into his mother’s motives. 

If it weren’t for Jughead’s tendency to let her do what she wanted, his grumbling about her spending time with his mother might have been louder. As it was, he scowled when she told him of Gladys’s invitation, and said, “She wants your opinion. On her suit,” with that thick frosting of sarcasm she loved him for. 

She had rolled her eyes, wrapping her arms around his lean and fit body. The contours of his tight torso could be so easily felt through the soft cotton of his blouse, and she delighted in the liberties she could take with it, but as she stared up at him with her wide green eyes, he seemed to relent, thoroughly disgusted with himself. 

“Very well,” he grumbled. “I will study this book on my own while you go off with my mother on a completely pointless errand.”

“Oh, you know it isn’t about the suit.”

“That comforts me, not at all.”

And she knew that _ he _knew it wasn’t about the suit. 

Jughead’s relationship with his mother was, at best, complex. It was as if he barely trusted Gladys, but he was obligated to give her the benefit of the doubt, and that each time he did, he looked to be awaiting a verdict of some sort, the scale of which spanned the difference between a public shaming or a walk up the gallows. 

Short of telling her “Be careful,” he let her go with Gladys, his scowl and a cigarette tucked between his lips as he watched them drive off in the carriage. 

Now as she sat watching Gladys from a sofa chair at the clothiers, seamstresses tucking fabric and pinning pinches to her suit dress, Gladys did appear intent on finding out what Betty thought would look best on her--a deep unrelenting black, or a black with some silver accents. 

She really did loom large. She wasn’t a small woman, but she wasn’t taller than Jughead, and yet she seemed so overwhelming, with her big curly hair and her sharp features. She did not need to say much to send the entire store scrambling. 

Betty imagined that it was the same way at work, the way she wielded her piercing looks and the simplest wave of her hand, and Betty had to appreciate that sort of power. 

Betty could not help being fascinated by it, or be wary of it.

When the particulars of the suit were finalized, Gladys stepped down from the dressmaker's stand and plopped on the sofa chair beside Betty. 

“Well, that must have been dreadfully boring for you,” Gladys said, squeezing her arm. “I thank you for indulging my whims. I just like the fresh air you bring into the room, Betty.”

“I was not bored in the least, Mrs. Jones.” She wasn’t lying, and Gladys seemed to note that. 

The Jones matriarch scrutinized her with an amusement akin to a lion giving a mouse a false sense of safety. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Every bit of it.”

Gladys huffed, as if she had hoped to catch Betty in a lie but couldn’t. “I noticed that you and Junior are getting quite close.”

“We were always close,” Betty said, evenly. 

Gladys shrugged. “Jughead is getting along in years. Most men his age are either engaged or married. You might have noticed that.”

Betty could feel her face growing unbearably warm. She had not thought of engagements or marriage in the context of Jughead, but should she have? He certainly knew her feelings with regard to it, but it did not mean he was not thinking it. 

It vexed her to assign such an assumption to him. “At twenty and four? I’ve known other men who have gone unmarried or unengaged up to their mid-thirties. I don’t believe he should hurry.”

A soft scoff blew between Gladys’ lips, leaning back on her seat with the heels of her palms. “Please. What is the point of dawdling? Jughead isn’t the sort to sow his ‘wild oats’. He finds dalliances prosaic and pointless, and his sensibilities simply cannot be calibrated to find amusement in such endeavors. The woman that wins Jughead’s passions will have him for life, whether she likes it or not.”

“In some circles that is called faithfulness. Sometimes, loyalty. An admirable trait to have.”

Gladys chuckled. “I suppose. He didn’t get it from his father, I’ll tell you that. FP was a wild one--conquest after conquest. He needed taming.”

Betty spent the next few seconds employing all possible methods of scrubbing any thoughts of “wild” FP from her imaginings. This was particularly unnerving in light of the fact that one of those wild conquests was possibly her mother. 

“Of course, it was you who succeeded,” Betty said--again, she meant every word. 

Glady shrugged. “Not entirely. I was unable to steer him towards better habits; to success. He was a complete failure and dragged Jughead down with him. I had to take Jellybean and myself away from her father’s ruin, which could have catastrophically prevented me from remedying that entire situation.”

Anger began to simmer in Betty’s belly at how Gladys so casually glazed over leaving Jughead behind. She knew, even if Gladys didn’t, how being abandoned broke Jughead’s heart. She saw those wounds fester in Jughead, and even now, she could detect the scars.

One of the most compelling reasons for Jughead’s struggle with those Southside gangs was the brand Gladys left behind, the belief that her leaving had instilled in him--that he would amount to _ nothing. _

FP’s drunken neglect added to that narrative, but it was Gladys--his own mother—leaving him, that made him believe he wasn’t worth saving, and it led him to seriously consider living a criminal life. It took Charles and his persistence to lead Jughead away from that self-destructive path.

If it weren’t for Charles, Jughead might very well have succumbed to the temptations of the Serpents. 

“Were you surprised then?” Betty asked in a clipped tone. “That when you returned to Riverdale, Jughead was on his way to making something of himself?”

“As a matter of fact, I was,” Gladys admitted, completely unaware of Betty’s boiling rage. “I am not accustomed to human benevolence the likes of which Charles displayed. I returned to Riverdale after I had made a respectable name for myself with the firm belief that I was saving Jughead from ruin. I was pleasantly surprised to find a gentleman instead of a thug. It made my decision to bring Jughead back here to New Kin an easy one. I honestly thought making a gentleman out of him would be my biggest challenge and yet there he was, a gentleman of his own doing.”

Betty could feel her nails digging into her palms. “Jughead wanted to rise above his circumstances, even knowing that he would get no help from his father or the Serpents. He fought the forces that sought to restrain him, and he was able to do so even with the shadow of his mother’s abandonment darkening his path.”

Gladys seemed unaffected by this rebuke. “It was fortunate, then, that your brother was there to help pluck him out of the mire.”

Betty pressed her lips together, her mind racing. What was Gladys getting at? “Charles and I were fortunate to have met him.”

Glady smirked. “Ah, there it is. How _ did _Charles find Jughead? Was my son picking his pockets? Was it a chance meeting? What in God’s earth would motivate your brother to help a troublemaker like my Jughead, and practically adopt him? I heard that his official title had been Distant Cousin.”

Betty was beginning to think that she had underestimated the depth of Gladys’s ruthlessness. “Charles never explained that to me, but I had assumed that there were very few Kin in Riverdale and Charles felt it his duty to educate the children who were.”

This wasn’t a lie. It was what she believed at the time, and no one had explained it to Betty how Jughead came about, and even if she could assume now that her mother had confessed Charles’s origins to him, and therefore finding it his duty to take care of his other siblings from this wayward father known as FP, that was never expressed to her--not even by Jughead. 

She was telling Gladys the truth, even if she was omitting the fact that she could make quite the educated guess as to how Charles discovered him.

“You are brilliant at _ not _lying, Betty,” Gladys said, waving her words away. “But you need not contort the truth on Jughead’s account. I know Charles is his brother. I know FP had a child with Alice. I know what Jughead had to do in Riverdale when he went there, and it wasn’t just to fetch you.”

Betty was not going to be tricked into confirming Gladys’s suspicions. “Charles’s death brought Jughead to Riverdale.”

“And he saved you and your mother from ruin.” Gladys’ lip curled with mild contempt. “I suppose he feels obligated to use Charles’s wealth to care for you and your mother. How did I raise such a soft boy? Were he not so taken by you, he might have a mind to use that money for his own benefit.”

It took all of Betty’s powers of forbearance not to slap Gladys’ mouth. “Were he not so soft, he would have never gone with you to New Kin.”

Gladys made a sound of displeasure. “Oh, girl. I would not have taken no for an answer. Why do you think I took him away from Riverdale? I may seem uncaring to many, but I watch out for my own. My son.” 

Betty looked over her shoulder to gauge the distance between them and the dressmakers and found that they were alone. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “With all due respect, Mrs. Jones, you do not know the pain you wrought on your son when you left him. That is not for me to explain--that is a conversation meant between you and Jughead, but you hurt him, and I find it difficult to believe that you came to Riverdale to take him back out of the goodness of your own heart.”

Gladys snorted. “I do not expect you to understand. I had my reasons for leaving him behind, and I did have every intention of getting him back. When I came to him, it was because I was ready, and I had to make sure to take him away from Charles, the Forsaken, before anyone found out Jughead was sheltering with him.”

“Charles took good care of Jughead!” Betty hissed. 

“And I know that, but I did what I had to do, and it did not even occur to me then that Jughead and Charles were related at all, but after I returned to New Kin with him, I learned that the tracking sigil that monitored the Forsaken and who associated with them did not trigger with _ family _\--it is a flaw in the tracker that the Imperium seeks to correct, but I had pieced it together soon after. FP’s oats, clearly, were wilder than even I estimated.”

“Well, if you are so convinced--”

“My son and my husband have lied to me. _ Are _ lying to me,” Gladys hissed, teeth grit, and then just as the sharp venom in her eyes rose, it withered to something akin to defeat. “That is my fault, I know. I lost Jughead’s trust, but I have worked hard to earn some of it back, so don’t lie to me, Betty.” 

Betty glared at her. “If you think I would tell you things that Jughead has chosen not to share with you, then you have another think coming. It is not my obligation to confirm your suspicions.”

“Do you think I need you to confirm Jughead and Charles’s relationship? That is not even a question. I know Charles is FP and Alice’s son. I know that Charles and Jughead are brothers. What I need you to tell me, Betty, is whether you and Jughead plan to pursue this hair-brained caper of finding out what has compelled the Powers that Be to silence your brother forever, because then it means I must do whatever it takes to protect him!”

Betty could not find the words in the face of this new revelation. 

Gladys found her her foothold and went on. “I know you care about my son, and I know that you will protect him if you have to. You understand, then, if I tell you not to entangle him in your quest for the truth! Spare him this heartbreak! There is nothing there but pain.”

“Pain? What pain?”

“Do you have any idea what Charles did to earn that ex-communication?”

“I know _ nothing!” _

“Charles _ killed _your father!”

Betty was agape, her mind exploding with this new bomb of accusations. “I beg your pardon?”

“I read his file, Betty. The ex-communication files. It said that he was Forsaken for the murder of Hal Cooper. He evaded suspicion for years. Your father was scheduled to leave port for France the next day, which bought your brother time to concoct the lie that he got on that ship and sailed off, but the ship was attacked by pirates and it was a boon to the deception. It was the perfect crime, but some evidence came to light years later—“

_ “Evidence?” _ Betty cried. “My father was already dead by the time I was old enough to have any recollection of my childhood! If he did what you said he did, Charles could not have been older than 15! A _ child! _ Are you accusing my brother of killing my father--”

“I am not accusing. I am stating what is written in his file.”

“That file is a _ lie. _Charles would have never killed his own father, for that is what Charles would have known him to be, then!” Betty’s jaw and shoulders ached with conviction.

“To protect his sister, he may,” Gladys said. “The file indicated that your father was unstable, and that he may have had murderous compulsions himself, and that his obsession for you, his newborn daughter, made your mother and brother fear for your life. It shows that your brother was driven by love, not evil. But then again, that could have just been an excuse. If it came to light that he wasn’t Hal’s child, he might have lost the inheritance--”

Betty refused to hear the rest of it. “If he did such a thing, there would have been some sort of trial! Even the Kin are not so draconian—“

Gladys laughed. “No? Perhaps not, but they will preserve the very foundations of this society at any cost. Charles was the jewel of Stonewall at the time, and Stonewall is a Kin institution as enduring as the Guild. Both the Guild and Stonewall would have been tainted by Charles’s crimes, so they settled the matter quietly. He had powerful relations, your father, and your brother had to answer for his murder, somehow.”

Betty rose from her seat with such force that the chair tumbled back with a loud clatter. “Give me the file. Give it to me--”

“I have burned it. It can hurt my son so I thought it best to get rid of it!”

Betty did not believe her, but that was beside the point. Tears began to leak from her eyes. “You have no right, Mrs. Jones. _ No right!” _

“I do if you wish to drag my son into this madness. Don’t you think I know you and Jughead are trying to find answers about Charles? If you wish to know, then do it on your own. Do not bring my son into this tangled web.”

“How did you know?” Betty demanded. “How did you know we were looking for answers?”

“FP is a fool. He asked me about Steward Minetta, the keeper of souls in the Room of Realms. I got suspicious and I asked the Steward what FP was fishing around for. It was easy enough to determine that he was asking about Charles’s Daemon, and I know my husband. He would never take the initiative if Jughead hadn’t motivated him.” Gladys stood to meet Betty’s gaze. “Leave it be, Betty. If you can’t, then leave my son out of it. Don’t let him throw his life away for a brother that is dead. I know Jughead. I know how he regarded Charles. Charles was his hero. Charles is the very reason he made something of himself, even here. And God help me, if Jughead falls into despair again, he might—“ Gladys clamped her lips shut.

Betty was sobbing, and she wondered if the dressmaker hadn’t been driven away on purpose, for no one was there to stop the onslaught that was Gladys Jones. “He might _ what, _Mrs. Jones?” 

Gladys shook her head. “Do not taint that memory with _ this. _Or so help me—I will book you a ticket back to Riverdale myself.”

Tbc

  
  
  
  



	13. In Truth, There’s Pain

Betty felt sick with Gladys’ revelations, so much so that she rushed to the dressmakers’ lavatory where she endeavored to compose herself with deep breaths, lest she began emptying the contents of her stomach through vomitous exertions. 

As it was, her muscles cramped and her body seeped with sweat.

All she could think as she splashed her face with the water from the washbowl was that everything Gladys had told her had to be a lie. 

She refused to accept it. And yet doubt lingered, and that was what made her feel wretched, for she had never doubted her brother before, but now that it became clearer and clearer by the day that many secrets were kept from her, she began to question her trust. 

She could not bear the indignity of rejoining Gladys in the carriage, so without bidding Gladys goodbye, Betty fled the dressmakers and without a determined destination hopped onto the nearest trolley.

It was only moments later, when the conductor asked for her fare that she realized that she was at least headed uptown. 

The trolley was on a westward track and if she did not mind her streets, she would find herself in blocks and blocks of construction sites up the West Side. She hurriedly stepped out just a few blocks shy of Central Park, her troubled mind crowded with thoughts and worries. 

_ Charles was his hero.  _ Gladys had said.  _ Charles is the very reason he made something of himself, even here. _

She knew. She always knew that Jughead looked up to Charles the way a son would a beloved father. He worshipped Charles, thinking him faultless and wise. When Jughead indulged her mischief, it was because he felt duty bound to protect her, just as Charles had taught him. 

The very notion that Charles may have killed his  _ own father  _ for profit would destroy the very foundation of how Jughead had managed to rise out of his challenges, strong and principled. To plant such doubts was gutting  _ her,  _ and she’d had more years with Charles than Jughead ever did. 

It felt selfish to tear the very fabric of Jughead’s safety net to pieces. 

_ “And God help me, if Jughead falls into despair again, he might _ _ \--” _

Might what? What did Gladys refuse to say? 

She felt beaten and resigned. She did not know what to do and she despised this feeling more than anything. 

Whatever admiration she had for Gladys’ grit and power was now lost in the cinders of Charles’s supposed burnt files. 

Her eyes stung with tears, but she wiped them away before they could overflow. 

She must write her mother a letter. She needed to ask Alice what really happened to her father, and if Charles really did it, she had to believe it was because he was protecting her. Nothing about Charles had suggested that he would choose possessions over people. He had shown nothing but compassion in both his dealings with the living and the dead. 

Gladys said the report indicated Charles did it for her and nothing else. It was Gladys herself who formulated other possible motives. 

But if all this happened, Alice would know, wouldn’t she? Had she kept this to herself all this time? What manner of secrets did her family keep? 

Her heart hurt again, and she found that tucking into a quiet corner in an alley would allow her to cry into her hands without making a spectacle of herself. 

_ Jughead is trying to reach you.  _

Sabathiel’s voice was soothing, but her words brought Betty endless anxiety. Would he be able to glean everything from their telepathic connection? 

Snatches of Jughead’s voice came and went in her mind’s ear, like ghostly infestations. 

_ He feels your distress. He is worried. He wants to know where you are.  _

She looked up and found that she had wandered into the Haitian Kin community in Central Park east. She felt so overcome by her grief and anger that she had been completely oblivious to the smell of spices and the upbeat sounds of music and chattering. 

She let the energy of the community take her, leading her feet towards a familiar path. In due time, she found herself in the storefront of Valerie’s Patties. She did not know what brought her here, specifically. Perhaps Sabathiel had led her, taking a page from Jughead who seemed to find comfort in good food. 

_ But I’m not hungry,  _ Betty told Sabathiel. 

Sabathiel did not reply, and Betty had to remind herself that Sabathiel’s thoughts were her own. 

The influx of people through Valerie’s Pattie’s door did not seem to abate, but there wasn’t a crowd. As was usual, customers came, bought the patties, and carried their patties out. 

When Betty walked into the store, she saw that Valerie was behind the counter again, but another girl, younger, was attending the orders and the register. 

Betty suddenly felt shy. Her subconscious had reminded her that Valerie had invited her to come at any time, but it was presumptuous of her to assume that it was an open invitation. Perhaps she should have sent word. Then again, if she bought patties, she could save face. 

Valerie’s wide smile upon seeing her, however, was warm and welcoming. “Ms. Cooper! What a lovely surprise! Is Jughead outside?” She proceeded to undo her apron. 

Betty's face was aflame. “No. Just me. I was… just in the neighborhood.”

The expression of Valerie’s face went from bright to a calmer sheen. She didn’t seem put off, however. 

Betty realized that she would look a sight, puffy eyed and flushed, and for a moment, Betty wanted to flee. Vulnerability was something she reserved for Jughead alone. 

“I just wanted to say hello, but I should go! You seem busy,” Betty added hastily, already turning towards the door. 

Valerie went to her immediately, leading her to the seating. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sit and rest with me. You’ve not tried  _ Crémasse,  _ have you? It goes wonderfully with the extra spicy beef.” 

Betty tried to stamp down her stress. This was a mistake. “I’m sorry, I’m not hungry. You are very kind--”

Valerie waved her words away. “Stay for the  _ crémasse.” _ She winked and turned to her assistant.  _ “ _ _ Jalissa, please fetch wi sum crémasse. An sum extra spicy patties.” _

“Of course, madame,” Jalissa replied, sweetly, thereafter proceeding to yell into the kitchen with decidedly more conviction.

Valerie rolled her eyes and Betty found that for a moment, she could actually lift her lips into a small smile.

“I was like her when I was her age. All sugar one minute and breathing fire the next,” Valerie whispered. “Shall I encourage it? Perhaps.”

Betty always preferred spice, but honey had its place. 

As Valerie’s presence calmed her, she realized she felt drained, and she looked at her hands as she let her feelings of devastation settle over her shoulders. “ _ Crémasse _ sounds wonderful. Is it a sweet beverage?”

Valerie nodded enthusiastically. “It is, and it has barbancourt, a nice Haitian rum.”

Betty laughed in spite of herself. “Of course.”

“You don’t like rum?”

“I think I might like it too much.”

Valerie seemed unbothered by this. “Just have a sip. Tell me what you think of it.”

The food and beverage were served to them from the kitchen, and Betty did have a sip of the drink. She could taste the rum in the back of her tongue, its aroma reaching her nostrils. The cremasse was delicious, but potent, lighting a fire in her body. She had to take a moment to let the heat pass through her before she trusted herself to speak. 

Valerie laughed at the expression on her face. “Are you sure you don’t want this beef patty? It’s the perfect complement and will probably keep you sober.”

She nodded and took a hefty bite of the patty, and with her mouth full of pastry and beef, she grumbled, “I will pay for everything.”

“Order twice as much next time. Today is my treat.” Valerie took some of the cremasse herself, sipping it more slowly. “I am glad to see that you’re more comfortable going about the city. It is a wondrous place, New Kin.”

Betty nodded. She still did not know why she was here, but she supposed knowing that Valerie had lost her brother too soon, as well, helped settle the grief. She felt like she was back to that night she was told Charles wasn’t coming back. It was as if he had died yesterday, her feelings so raw that she could not imagine doing one thing or another. 

Being here, in this restaurant with someone who knew that pain, even if they did not talk about it, felt grounding. Normal. The earth was not going to swallow her because the quake was happening in her mind and she could control it, or at least she could try. 

“What if someone told you something about your brother, something so unlike him, so contradictory to how you perceived him, that should it be true, it could upend the very foundations of who you are?” Betty looked up from her hands and met Valerie’s gaze. “Would you seek answers? Find proof that it isn’t so? Or would you leave it in doubt, hoping that you could one day convince yourself that the uncertainty meant it was never real?”

Valerie appeared to give it thought. “I believe people always say that they want the truth, but often enough, people refuse to accept it.”

“Is that an excuse not to seek it?”

A sardonic chuckle accompanied the sip of Valerie’s drink. She tore off a chunk from a pattie with her fingers. “Certainly not, but there is bliss in ignorance. I understand the appeal. It is easier. Some may argue that letting sleeping dogs lie is the only way to survive this world. But what is life if you don’t know pain? But that is just me.”

It was true what Valerie said. Some people don’t want to know the truth. “Would you? Try to find the truth, even if there’s a possibility that it could hurt you and the people you love?”

Valerie shrugged. “It is easy to say that I would, but I don’t know if I am brave enough. If I were to pretend that I am a wise and learned oracle, I would tell you, ‘The truth shall always set you free.’ But wisdom is for the aged and I am not an oracle.”

Betty’s eyes quirked at this interesting turn of advice. 

“The truth can get you in trouble. In fact--” Valerie chuckled. “It almost always does. Depending on your philosophies, you will either take that as a warning or a challenge. And you, my dear, don’t strike me as easily frightened.”

“I am not afraid.” Betty almost always meant it when she said that, but this time a flicker of unease settled in her belly.

“Good. Because the only thing standing between you and everything you want is fear.”

More customers entered the store and Valerie had to excuse herself to help at the counter. 

Betty let her surroundings, the chatter, the noises from the kitchen, and the ring of the register settle her thoughts. She also found that sipping the cremasse more slowly did allow her Kin constitution to process the alcohol more efficiently. 

After the wave of customers trickled to a manageable flow, Valerie was back at the table. “Are you better, my dear?”

Betty felt her cheeks warming. “I did not mean for you to notice.” It was mortifying to realize that she lacked composure when the subject of Charles and his death pervaded her thoughts. She truly believed she had had ample time to grieve and cope with that loss, but suddenly having these revelations about Charles and the life he never told her he led--she felt broken open, like someone had cut right through the mending. “I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize. You came to me for a reason, yes? And I hope I helped.”

Betty nodded, fighting back her tears even as she pushed through a liquid smile. “You have. A great deal. Thank you.” 

Valerie gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You come here any time, Ms. Cooper.”

“Betty, please.”

“Betty.” Valerie looked up, her eyes trained at the door. “And look who’s here.”

Betty looked over her shoulder and there was Jughead, his face lined with worry. He looked like he had dressed hastily, his nice jacket thrown over his blouse that wasn’t even properly tucked in. 

She hadn’t realized how much she needed him until she saw him. She forgot decorum and stood to rush into his arms. His arms around her felt strong and grounding, and she closed her eyes, letting his presence soothe her frayed nerves. 

“What’s happened?” he gasped. “I felt it. I don’t know what it is, but your grief--”

“How did you know I was here?”

He pushed back the tendrils of her hair from her face. “I saw it. In my mind. Like you were looking at the storefront.”

Their bond was so much deeper that she could have realized. It knew, even before her mind could process it, how much she was in need of him. She had thought she wanted to be alone, she thought that she did not want him to know, but all of that was a primal instinct of the wounded. Their bond was immensely more powerful than that. 

They needed practice wielding it, because it was an elegant and refined tool. 

Her insides twisted with worry. So many things about this were uncertain. Could it upend Jughead’s life? His perception of Charles or his fragile relationship with his mother? His life was going in such a positive direction until she came to New Kin and ruined everything. 

She managed to lift the corners of her lips into a smile. “I had a moment. About Charles, and it came down on me--”

“Was it mother?” His own lips pressed together, the skin between his eyes creased with displeasure. “She said something to you that caused you pain.”

This was not the place for this. 

She looked over her shoulder at Valerie who was trying  _ not  _ to watch them. Jalissa, however, seemed unabashedly riveted by the scene, watching them with her hand propping her chin. 

“Thank you so much, both of you, for keeping me company,” Betty said. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Come often and bring your appetite with you.” Valerie’s eyebrow arched pointedly at Jughead. Jalissa laughed and Betty could feel her face warming at the double speak, but she promised to be back soon. 

“With a more cheerful disposition,” Betty added. 

They turned to leave, and Betty braced herself for this conversation. 

****************

She asked if they could walk, first, and perhaps find a quiet place to talk. 

Jughead, assured that she was safe and unhurt, did not argue. As they walked past the market stalls and came upon the row houses, the streets grew quieter, with only the sound of children’s laughter piercing the widening silence.

They passed some ladies pushing baby carriages, and Jughead gave them a proper hat tip and received polite nods in response. 

Betty seemed calmer as they walked, and when they reached the lake, he watched her take a deep breath of the watery air. There were a few people lounging along the grass by the lake--young girls looking at fashion magazines, children with paper boats pushing their crafts over the water with sticks, and perhaps a pair of lovers hiding behind a tree, whispering words meant for no one else. 

A few boats dotted the lake, solitary fishermen hobbyists, two ladies with little booklets in their hands, perhaps reading poetry to each other, and a haried father making sure that his young son wouldn’t fall over. 

There was a boat rental, attended by a bored young man, and Jughead went to him, paying for the use of a boat. 

Betty seemed glad for the idea, sidling up to him and hooking her arm around his, giving it a tender squeeze. 

The attendant readied their boat onto the shore and with expert ease, helped them into their small vessel. 

“I will whistle for you in thirty minutes,” the attendant said, pushing them off. 

Jughead gently rowed them to the center of the lake, where it seemed quietest, and on any other day, this might be considered a romantic gesture, but he could feel her stress and thought perhaps the gentle motion of water might help to soothe her. 

Betty needed time, clearly. Whatever was weighing her mind, the initial impact of it had been sudden and great. He knew because he felt it, when an onslaught of distress came so suddenly and so powerfully that he felt sick to his stomach, before the feelings of despair and doubt exploded.

He remembered how he had instinctively sought her out with his mind, hoping he could make that mental connection, but he had only ever made his thoughts travel when she was near. When there was a distance between them, it only worked when neither of them sought that communication. 

He had poured through the book, trying but failing to establish that mental connection through the sigils, but the book recommended practice, something they were yet to do for reading each other’s thoughts. 

After far too long a time, he recalled that their Daemons could communicate, so he sent his thoughts out through Elemiah, who was able to reach Sabathiel, and it seemed to have worked, because moments later, he was beset by a mental image of Valerie’s Patties’ storefront. 

He didn’t doubt, throwing on a coat and boots to make his way to Central Park east, taking the trolley and sprinting the rest of the way. During moments of pause, he could not help but direct his suspicions at Gladys, whom Betty last left with. Betty would never bring Gladys to Valerie’s with her, which meant they were separated, which likely meant that Gladys had done or said something to upset Betty enough to go off on her own. 

His mind had inevitably wandered to the one secret he’d kept from Betty: his addiction. Perhaps Gladys had told her in some effort to--

_ To what?  _ He couldn’t imagine the reasons for Gladys’ spilling that secret to Betty. Even supposing Gladys resurrected her past pointless ambitions of pushing Jughead and Veronica to come to some kind of engagement--a ploy Jughead had quickly disabused Gladys of pursuing, Gladys would have found other means to make it happen, a means that would not have involved emotional confrontations, for his mother abhorred such things. 

Betty’s demeanor conveyed no anger towards him, so it seemed unlikely that was what was upsetting her, but at the moment, her eyes turned towards the vastness of the lake, her shoulders appeared downturned, the fire in her eyes dimmed. 

What had his mother done to exhaust Betty’s fire so? 

“Did Charles ever talk to you about my father?” she asked. 

He had not expected that question. “In the briefest way, usually regarding some object in the house that your father had purchased. He always called your father Hal when speaking to me.”

Her hands started to fidget, fingers curling within themselves, rubbing around her wrists. “Did he ever explain why my father was gone?”

What did Gladys say to her? “Lost at sea. That’s what Charles told me.”

Though she nodded, her agitation did not abate. “What was Charles like when he spoke of my father? Did he seem sad? Distraught?” She gave a sardonic laugh. “Triumphant?”

He’d had enough. He could not keep watching her so distressed. He reached over and pressed his hands over hers. “Betty, what did mother tell you?”

Her face crumbled, and her lips pursed tightly. “If I tell you, everything you ever thought about Charles might come into question, and I know how you think of him. I know that you look up to him and that he gave you the strength you needed to get through Stonewall, and New Kin, and all your other challenges.”

He knew what unsavory truths were like. He also knew how secrets festered. Knew it in his bones, but his anger for his mother began to stir. What had his mother known that she chose not to tell him, but decided to use to hurt Betty? What could be so damning that Betty was afraid it would hurt him? 

He always knew of his mother’s ruthlessness, and it was clear to him that she had only ever used it to protect their family. That she would direct that ruthlessness at Betty was unconscionable. 

“Whatever mother told you about Charles,” he began, teeth grit, “was a lie. Or misinformation. Nobody knows Charles better than we do.”

“Is that true? Because everyone seems to know more about Charles than we do, Jughead.” She buried her face in her palms. “The Imperium, the Guild, your mother--”

“They don’t know anything,” Jughead said with conviction. “They have pieces of paper that say something about him, but what we know of him is  _ real.  _ He raised us both, he showed us his love, and his respect. He protected us, and absolutely nothing should cast that in doubt, Betty.”

“Your mother obtained Charles’s ex-communication files,” Betty finally said, looking up. “I don’t know how she obtained it, but she did, and she said--” She paused, breaking eye contact with him and shook her head vigorously. “I shouldn’t.” 

“Tell me,” Jughead insisted. “I will not let you bear this burden alone. We are stronger together, remember?”

A watery smile crept up her lips as she looked at him, her gaze hopeful. “The file said that he had killed my father all those years ago, that he did it to protect me because my father was exhibiting a psychosis so extreme that Charles and mother feared for my life. Mrs. Jones said new evidence came to light years later and that my father’s powerful relatives demanded recompense, and that was what became the basis of Charles’s ex-communication. But your mother did suggest that Charles did it to protect  _ his  _ secret, that he was not Hal Cooper’s son. Jughead--”

“No,” Jughead interrupted before the pounding in his head overtook his senses.  _ “No.  _ Charles would never. He was a practical man, but he only ever earned his wealth to keep his family comfortable and well-tended. Betty, you mustn’t--”

“Nobody ever told me anything!” she hissed, pounding her knuckles against her lap. “I was always kept in the dark about everything--about my father, about Charles’s ex-communication, about  _ you.  _ How am I to believe that what I know is  _ real  _ when I have to press and sneak and manipulate to learn the truth about anything?”

He could think of nothing to refute her words, for even he held secrets from her at this very moment. The very notion of telling her his truth filled him with dread and shame, even as he was fully aware that Betty was referring to the things they kept from her as they were growing up. 

In the past, it was always a means to shield her. She had been a child, back then, and he had kept Charles’s confidence under Charles’s orders, and even if he knew nothing about Charles’s ex-communication, Jughead had been complicit in keeping other things from her, including his blood relationship with Charles. 

That she questioned Charles’s character now was not her fault, it was the fault of everyone who had kept Charles’s secrets, or even just the daily unwholesome truths of the Southside life that Charles had preferred not to expose her to when she was so young. 

He took her fisted hands by their wrists and stilled them. “Please, please listen to me when I say that there was nothing about Charles that would make me believe that he killed Hal  _ for money _ . He didn’t know the truth about me and father until years later. If he did kill Hal, it would have been to protect you. I know because I would do the same.”

Her brows furled. “I would never wish anyone’s death for my life.”

He loved her so much it hurt. “It isn’t a choice between your life for another’s. I don’t think anyone in their right mind takes pleasure in killing, but we are willing to forfeit our souls for the safety of the ones that matter to us. That is the choice Charles made, if he even had to do such a thing.”

“It was written on the report.”

“Did you read it?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Your mother said she burned it. She said it could harm you if she kept it. Would she lie about that? Why would she?”

His mother kept things to herself when it suited her, but she would not lie about such explosive information. One other thing dawned on him. If she knew Charles wasn’t Hal’s son-- “Does mother know about--”

“She knows everything. She knows Charles is your half-brother, she knows Charles was FP’s son with my mother, she knows you inherited Charles’s estate, she burned that file to prevent us from seeking the truth. She told me to stop investigating Charles and that I should tell you to let it be, because anything we learn may harm you by association.”

Jughead could feel his temper igniting in his chest. “And if you didn’t stop? If we didn’t stop? What did she say she would do to you?”

She turned away, her shoulders slumping. “That is not important.”

“It  _ is.  _ Betty, you and Charles were there for me when my own mother abandoned me all those years ago. What did she say to you?”

She pressed her palm to her forehead, her gaze remaining on the grassy bank of the lake. “Your mother wishes to protect you. That is her instinct, but I am not afraid of her. I care about what you think, and whether you wish to risk your happiness for the truth.”

Jughead wasn’t afraid of what he might learn of Charles. In his heart he knew his brother could do no wrong. He believed that whatever Charles may have done, he did it to protect the ones he loved. 

That was not the truth that frightened him. 

His truth, that he was an addict, was what made his insides twist. He was ashamed--absolutely ashamed that after everything Charles had taught him, after all the tools he was provided to be strong, independent, and quick witted, he had succumbed to opioids and cocaine, had done things while he was high out of his wits, had acted disgracefully in some situations that might have caused a scandal, were it not for his parents and their clever contrivances. He was the picture of a wastrel son, choosing vice over virtue, when he had every privilege to be a better person. 

Betty abhorred such men in Riverdale, and why shouldn’t she? He, himself, had expressed disgust at their selfishness and irresponsible behaviors, had lost respect for his own father because he had been nothing but a drunk who would spend their rent money on alcohol and leave barely enough for a loaf of bread and the broth at the bottom of the local pub’s soup cauldron. 

What he was now--this was the Jughead he wished for her to see. 

“We will uncover the truth about Charles,” he said, carefully, cupping her face and caressing the apple of her cheek with his thumb. “Not the one written down on record, the  _ truth.  _ We will get through this, I promise you.”

The relief in her eyes was nearly heartbreaking. “We must be careful not to let your mother know.”

He frowned. “I won’t have her treat you this way.”

“Confronting her will only serve to distract. Let it be, Jughead. And carry on as if you know nothing.”

How can he? It seemed an impossible task. He had perhaps naively thought his mother was done hurting him, that there was nothing else his mother could do that would hurt more than her abandonment, but to know that she had sent Betty into despair, had felt Betty’s pain--Gladys had struck his better half, and he was being told he should do nothing about it.

But as Betty said, it would only serve to distract. “I will say nothing, but only because I believe it would lower her guard. Perhaps there is more to discover from her than what she let on.”

She did not argue. Only leaned over to press a kiss on his lips. “Be careful.”

He nodded. “I know my mother. I will be.”

***************

They had returned separately to keep up the ruse, with Jughead getting home first. His excuse was that he needed to replenish his stock of cigarettes, but other than that, Betty knew nothing of his conversation with his mother in the interim, until, upon her return, Jughead had asked, in his mother’s presence, “Did you find the book you were looking for?”

Her immediate confusion had Gladys hastily explaining that Betty had graciously told her to head home without her, so that she may spend as much time in the bookstore as she desired. 

“Ah,” Betty had said, tossing Gladys a look of pure disdain while simultaneously forcing a grin on her face. 

“Could it have inconvenienced you too much to wait, mother?” Jughead had asked in a clearly irritable voice. He was relishing this moment as his only means of venting his rage for his mother, no doubt. “She accompanied you to her dressmaker, which I imagine would have been unengaging for her in the extreme--a bookshop would’ve entertained you both.”

Jughead spent a few minutes on this trend of questioning, just to keep Gladys on her toes before Gladys finally fled. 

Betty had thought that this had relieved some of the pressure that Jughead was experiencing biting his tongue on the matter of confronting his mother. 

They had also practiced the alpha sigils in the Jones family basement that evening, where there was an area for practicing all manner of physical exertions, not unlike the training space they had at Elm. This likely also helped to expel Jughead’s boiling anger of his mother’s machinations. 

*************

There was no need to go to orientation for the trials the next day. Their instructions were to head immediately to their Senior Peace Dealer’s department, so Betty and Jughead walked through the turnstiles together and in the same direction. 

The previous day’s emotional tribulations aside, today truly felt like a new day, pervaded by this pleasant feeling of walking in step with Jughead because they were headed in the exact same direction. It almost felt like they were working together, already, even if Jughead had been reticent since this morning. 

She attributed it to the fact that the intrigue with Gladys had taxed him more than he had first let on. Pretending he knew nothing, he said that morning, made his blood simmer. It appeared that the pressure released Sunday night did not relieve him for Monday. 

To have Jughead so quiet that morning, clearly troubled but refusing to share why, Betty could only assume that his thoughts had weighed him down during the night. 

She did not insist that he tell her, allowing him what space he needed to grapple quietly with his own feelings, for she knew that he would ask for counsel if he needed it. 

As they arrived at the department doors, she saw that Reggie was waiting for them, leaning casually against the wall. His silhouette cut a fine figure, with his light brown coat and white blouse making him look fresh and almost non-threatening. He had such an eager look in his eyes that she felt a slight pang--that he even hoped to win her. 

If she hadn’t loved Jughead first, Reggie might have had a chance.

“Ms. Cooper!” he cried, grinning. He was in such good spirits that even Jughead’s disapproving scowl did nothing to diminish it. “I hope you had a restful weekend! You look inspiring.”

Betty could not help but blush. Her appearance was one of functionality, having selected a serviceable skirt with the barest of under layers, and shoes she could run in. She had drawn her hair up in the simplest braid, gone of any elaborate style so often expected of ladies. It felt strange, to shed the layers, but it felt liberating, as well, like Chic, but as a lady. 

The lack of layers gave her an awareness of the weapons attached to her body that she never had before. Her shorter knickers allowed for a breadth of skin that had her blushing, but also defiant. A single look at the mirror that morning made her realise that absolutely  _ no one  _ knew that her knickers were shorter. There was simply no telling from the outside--only  _ she  _ knew, and that was empowering. She could feel the leather straps of her holster on her thigh and the sheath against her ankle. The petticoats, unhampered by layers, rubbed pleasantly against her skin, even if most of her leg was snug in its stockings. 

“You are too kind, Mantle, but truth be told I seemed to have acquired that reputation by default,” she quipped, remembering that Veronica had shared a similar opinion of her during the party. 

“You earned it,” Reggie insisted. “Ms. Cooper, you are--”

“Are you quite done?” Jughead demanded, directing the full range of his annoyance at Reggie. “We have work to do.” Whatever mood Jughead was in, Reggie had walked right into it. 

Chastised, Reggie held the door open for them. “Of course. After you, Ms. Cooper. Mr. Jones.”

Betty shot Jughead a look that she hoped conveyed  _ Be kind,  _ though she doubted it would make much of a difference. She walked through the doors and Jughead followed behind her.

Jughead directed her down the winding aisles, past the row of processors and into the smaller, cramped offices built for Peace Dealers. On each door they passed, there were two names stenciled on the glass, but when they reached Jughead’s office, it said only “F.P. Jones, III”. 

Betty wondered if that bothered Jughead each time he saw it, but he showed no indication of it as he pushed the door open and walked in. 

He set his hat on the coat hanger, ruffling his fingers through his hair. He gestured for them to sit as he plopped behind his desk. There was a second desk--an empty one, and as much as Betty felt an urge to sink in the seat behind it, she refrained, taking one of the seats facing Jughead’s desk. Reggie did the same, and while she noticed him looking at the empty desk, he said nothing, either. 

Jughead pulled a drawer open and plopped a folder onto the desk. “This is the second case file--as Ms. Blossom explained. We are to catch a Seer hawking Wraith Weed to the Locked. He works for the Luminary, and as disreputable as the Luminary’s business is, he runs a business, nonetheless, frequented by many wealthy New Yorkers that the Imperium would prefer not to incense. The Wraith Weed is sold in the Luminary’s establishment and we are expected to discover the whereabouts of his source without creating a scandal.”

Betty remembered from her Southside adventures that information of that sort won’t come easy. Making inquiries alone could mean danger. Perhaps that is what is putting Jughead in this sullen mood. 

“Are you armed?” Jughead asked, directing his question to Reggie. 

Reggie frowned. “Of course. I came prepared.”

“Good. I will lead, this time. Today, we are from the Criminal Investigation Division of New York City, and we are investigating the theft of a precious item.” He took a sketch out of a file. It was an ornate ring, befitting a man’s finger. “Due to the nature of the establishment, we will ask the Luminary for his discretion, as the owner of the item is of considerable reputation and influence.” He took out another sheet from the folder, this one a photo. “This is the man we are looking for. This photo of him was taken after having gotten arrested for committing a robbery in a Kinman’s home. He is a Seer and has access to our world. He had since gotten out and is now peddling the Wraith Weed to the Locked. We hope to exert pressure on the Luminary by a potential loss of business, should it get out that his establishment is prone to theft and client exposure.”

“What is this weed that you speak of?” Betty asked. 

“It’s a sense heightening agent,” Jughead explained. “Used sparingly by Peace Dealers when dealing with high-level Wraith Lords. They are not quite as easy to detect as the lower level ones. It is functional for Kin--still a drug, but it does not impair our judgement nor can we get addicted to it. Its after-effects for some Kinsmen are unpleasant--headaches, nausea…”

“Like after a night of debauchery,” Reggie suggested. 

“And how would you know, Mr. Mantle?” asked Jughead in an extremely deadpan tone.

“I heard,” Reggie added, quickly. 

Betty stifled a laugh, but Jughead went on with only an arch of his eyebrow. “When the Seers take it, they see  _ more,  _ and when the Locked take it, I am told they hallucinate colorful visions. God knows, the dead are inexplicable when induced in the Locked, and I suppose that is why it seems so quickly popular when the Locked inhale it. This substance is highly regulated by the Guild, and that this Seer is distributing it for profit is frowned upon by the Guild, though how much of it is resentment that Seers are unashamedly enterprising about it while the Guild can’t be--well, that shall remain a mystery.”

“That is unsurprisingly cynical of you, Mr. Jones.”

“Your powers of observation are astounding, Mantle.” Jughead got up and began to gather the pictures back into the file folder. “Whatever will we do without you?”

Reggie was about to retort right back when Betty mouthed  _ leave it  _ to keep him quiet. Jughead was in fine form and she feared Reggie’s ego might not survive the day if she let Reggie carry on with the foolish notion that he could beat Jughead in this battle of sarcasm. 

They filed out of the office, and with Jughead holding the door open for them, Reggie managed to walk in step with Betty. 

“He’s in a right-fine mood today, isn’t he?” Reggie whispered as they walked. 

“Just try not to be smart with him, Mantle,” she whispered back, quickly. “It is for your own good.”

Jughead caught up with them and led the way out, and Reggie followed her advice, getting into the autocarriage. With Reggie silenced, their ride to the Luminary’s went without further incident. 

*******************

The Luminary’s opium den in New York presented itself as a luxurious inn, draped with rich red fabrics and upholstery and decked with gold and jade. Its main clientele were foreign businessmen from the nearby sea port, though one would think that the lack of foot traffic in the front spelled loss for the business, at least in the day. 

Betty knew from the Vice Quarter that the tea house had little to no clientele in the day, but it was packed with people at night. The same might hold true for this business. 

The doors to the establishment were heavy and ornate. The doorman at the front was well dressed and dignified, swinging the door open the moment it was clear that Jughead wished to enter. 

Betty and Reggie followed right behind him as he walked up to the front desk to speak to the hostess. 

His CID pin was stark against the dark material of his coat and the attendant behind the desk noticed it immediately. Her gaze went from Jughead to all of them in a flash. 

“How may I be of service?” asked the lady in lightly accented English. 

“We are here on official business,” Jughead said without fanfare. “From the Criminal Investigation Division, and we would like to speak to the Luminary.” 

The hostess’s eyes widened with what seemed oddly like feigned surprise. “The Criminal Investigation Division! On what matter?”

“I apologize, madam. I am not at liberty to say,” Jughead said in a respectful tone. “But I will explain everything to the Luminary. Is he available?”

The hostess’s lips pursed, but she nodded, asking them to wait as she fetched the Luminary. She disappeared into the drapes behind her. 

Betty observed the details in the lobby, taking in the dim lighting that threw shadows against the oriental decor. There were murals of dancing women on the walls, waving light veils of various colors. Gold and jade dragons were carved upon the cornices and she could feel the thickness of the carpeting underneath her boots. She could smell incense and something just faintly tangy, like burning pickles. 

There was music, calming and exotic, played with a string instrument, carefully and melodiously plucked by some unseen musician. 

There were two grand and winding staircases on both sides of the desk, with more dragons carved upon its railing, maws wide open at the bottom of the stairs.

It seemed, to Betty, a bit much. 

As Reggie took in the decor of the room, Jughead seemed anything but relaxed. His shoulders were visibly tense and his finger was tapping lightly, but continuously, upon the front desk’s surface.

After a moment, a man appeared at the second floor landing wearing a robe of traditional, Chinese cut. He descended the staircase quickly, smiling at them the entire time, and as he reached the bottom, he gave them a polite bow. 

“Detectives,” he said. “I was told by my hostess that you require my presence. How may I be of service to you?” 

Jughead nodded. “These are my colleagues, Detective Smith and Detective Frost.”

“And you? How shall I address you?”

Jughead paused and Betty wondered if he had forgotten his pretend name. “Detective Sikes.”

“I am honored to meet you. I am Fa Deng, also known as the Luminary.” He turned to Reggie and spoke briefly to him in Chinese.

Reggie, red-faced, said, “I don’t speak Chinese.” 

The Luminary seemed wholly miffed by this fact and shot him a withering look before directing his gaze at Betty, briefly, and then addressing Jughead. “I did not know that the CID employed women agents.” 

Betty had an urge to say that any questions about her could be asked of her directly, but before she could say anything, the Luminary continued. “May I ask what this is about?”

Jughead explained their business pertaining to the stolen ring, and how his cooperation would be greatly appreciated, especially knowing that the owner of the ring was a man of great influence and reputation. Pressure was immediately exerted, encouraging the Luminary to be forthcoming with this information. 

“It would be a shame if this investigation were prolonged. Your clients might find it far too risky to come here if too many authorities were poking about, especially since the suspected thief works for you.” 

Betty noted that Jughead’s tone was light. It wasn’t so much a threat as it was a means to inform the Luminary that cooperation would be more to his benefit than anything else. 

“I understand,” said the Luminary. “We must discuss this in my office, then. But know that we do not allow firearms in this establishment. There are… certain compounds that are explosive and could ignite if a firearm were to be accidentally discharged. It is for safety.” He snapped his fingers and two attendants appeared with large boxes. “Please deposit your weapons in this box. They will be with the hostess for the meantime and will be here on your way out.”

Betty exchanged looks with Reggie before directing a questioning stare at Jughead. 

Jughead arched an eyebrow in mild protest and the Luminary bowed. “I must show that I apply this rule to all who cross my threshold. We run a respectable place here, as you know.”

Jughead’s lips pursed but he did begin to remove his weapons, digging into his coat and dumping his conventional weapons in the box. 

Betty and Reggie had little choice but to follow. 

When Betty deposited all but the knife on her ankle and the gun at her thigh, the attendants started to take the boxes away. The Luminary stopped them. 

“Your firearm, Detective Frost. The one you have hidden up your skirt.”

“I have no--”

“Any self-respecting woman would have one in these parts. Do not deny it, or I will take it myself.” 

Not so different from the Southside after all. 

She hardened her jaw and took a deep breath to calm herself. With as much dignity as she could muster, she propped her booted foot up on a chair and hitched her skirt up her leg. 

She could see both Jughead and Reggie averting their eyes as her garter belt started to show. The Luminary, however, was unmoved. She was finally able to pluck her colt from her leg and deposit it in the box. The Luminary had not seen the knife on her ankle. 

“I have no weapons left,” she said. “Do you wish to check under my corset?”

The Luminary merely smiled in response, waving his attendants away. He then gestured for Jughead to follow him back up the winding staircase. “Do you care to partake of the house’s products while you are here? I mean you and your officers, of course, as a gesture of thanks for your service to the city.”

“Your thanks are duly noted, but that is not necessary,” Jughead replied, quickly. “We are on duty.” 

Reggie leaned over to speak in her ear. “Did he just--”

“He did.” 

The second floor, hidden by thick and heavy red curtains, had starkly different decor—with little to no red. Walls and partitions were made of beautifully carved oak. There was a small Budha perched on an ornate credenza in the waiting room and the walls were lined with portraits of suited men. A large sculpture of jade and bronze was showcased at the far end of a long hallway.

The Luminary led them to a door with stenciled Chinese characters. The smell of incense grew faint. 

The filing cabinets along the Luminary’s office walls were exquisitely made. The entire room was elegant and every piece of furniture seemed custom made. The Luminary had no bodyguards, but perhaps that was only because he thought them to be of little threat. 

“Now, do we know the identity of this person of interest?” asked the Luminary once the door was closed. 

Jughead turned to Reggie, who took this as his cue to begin. 

Reggie dug into his coat pocket and produced the picture. “We know this man as Kurtz. Aside from the client having lost his ring here--”

The Luminary took the photograph and examined it, though he raised his finger at that last statement. “Allegedly. My clientele tend to forget many things while they’re here. You know the nature of my business.”

It took a moment for Reggie to absorb the Luminary’s words. “Indeed. There have been sightings of Kurtz coming to this facility.”

The Luminary made a sound of disdain and gave the photo back to Reggie. “I have never seen him, though I will tell my personnel to keep a lookout. You never know in these parts, with the five-points ruled by gangs and what-not. They run rampant in this city.”

Reggie frowned. “I suppose the gangs have been getting out of hand...”

Betty stepped forward. “The lost item is a family heirloom. Priceless. The owner will stop at nothing to find it. It would be a shame if more of our colleagues were to descend upon this place--to conduct a larger survey. Are you sure you’ve never seen this man?”

Her warning was more heavy-handed than the one Jughead gave him earlier. Her meaning was clear. There would be consequences for any lack of cooperation on the Luminary’s part. She could feel Reggie’s penetrating gaze. Everything she had said was a lie, but she was an expert bluffer. 

Jughead seemed unbothered, but his face was so bereft of emotion that she couldn’t possibly be sure of what he was thinking. She felt that wall in their connection, that impenetrable barrier. She had never felt such a thing from him until now. 

The Luminary sighed as he looked at the photograph again. “Perhaps my workers at the kitchen downstairs would know him.” 

“Kitchen?” Reggie asked. “Is he a cook?”

Betty was quite certain that the Luminary’s kitchen served concoctions of a variety unlike any of them have ever eaten at a dinner table before. 

“Of sorts,” the Luminary replied. He went to his desk and pulled at a chord hanging from the ceiling. Moments later, someone knocked at the office door and when the Luminary went to answer it, Jughead stopped him.

“Slowly, Mr. Deng.”

The Luminay raised his hands in a soothing gesture. “It is only my assistant.” He did open the door slowly. At its threshold stood a suited gentleman and he listened to the Luminary as he was given instructions in Chinese. 

Shortly after, the assistant nodded and swiftly went back into one of the other offices lining the hallway. 

Betty exchanged looks with Jughead. She had never seen an assistant with his own office before. 

The Luminary turned back to them without closing the door, pulling open a cabinet and taking out what appeared to be face coverings. “I shall walk you to the kitchen, and show you the facility, besides. I am proud of this business. My only request is that you refrain from staring at my clientele.”

Jughead nodded. “We shan’t.”

The Luminary started to lead the way back through the hall, distributing the face coverings among them. 

Betty examined the cloth. It was layered and light, and as the Luminary began to tie it around his face, Betty followed his example. Jughead and Reggie followed suit. 

“We have some ventilation for our customers, but I would suggest you not breathe too deeply of the air, even with these face coverings,” the Luminary explained. 

She tied it snug around her face as they descended the steps and entered the draped enclosures of the first floor. 

********************

It was dim behind the curtains, the walkways illuminated by glass lamps. The music in the background was softer, here, and attendants were flitting about quietly, seeing to the clientele who were in various states of repose. Smoke twirled lazily through the beams of soft light. 

Trays laden with pipes, tiny covered pots, and other paraphernalia were pushed about. There were pellets and tincture bottles, and Betty might have recognized some absynthe, served in the dark. This was more than just an opium den. 

They passed a gentleman draped on a lounge chair, stripped down to his breaches, blinking languidly as a pipe tumbled from his fingers. So many others were in various states of intoxication. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the Luminary said, eyes bright with humor and pride. “Such peace. If only the world could be so free.” 

“It is indolence,” Reggie said.

The Luminary shrugged. “Not always. Sometimes they are artists and writers, finding inspiration in their visions. Some come here for relief. Many of my clients have seen horrors and they come here to forget. If you’re lucky, Detective Sikes, you might find one of your colleagues on the premises.”

Jughead made a sound and dealt the Luminary a glare. “The kitchen.”

“It won’t be long,” said the Luminary, turning a corner. At the far end of a hallway, they descended into some steps, and the lighting became brighter. As they reached the bottom, it grew louder. Busier. 

Masked workers were chopping, grinding, and transporting buckets filled with powder. The powders were turned into paste and rolled into pellets, which were then piled into tiny pots. Large, simmering vats of liquid were stirred on one side while portioned into tinctured bottles in another. 

There was a very sweet, almost sickly smell permeating the air, as well. Strong enough to overpower the pickle scent of the burning opium above them. 

“Is that treacle?” Reggie asked. 

“Laudanum,” Jughead said. “Some prefer opium mixed with their liquor. Some use it for medicinal purposes.”

The Luminary grinned. “The pharmacies are our best clients. They order these in bulk and I offer the best kind in the city.”

Betty piqued her eyebrow at him at this interesting piece of information. 

A gentleman approached the Luminary and he was introduced as the operations manager. Reggie explained their purpose and the Luminary acted as translator between them. Reggie showed them the photograph and Betty noted that the manager’s brows pinched slightly together. He responded and the Luminary explained that they have not seen Kurtz on the premises for months. 

“What was he doing here then? Do you recall?” Jughead asked. 

As the Luminary translated and the manager answered at length, Reggie caught Betty’s gaze surreptitiously, darting his eyes towards another door, ever so slightly inclining his head. 

Reggie was telling her something. She dealt Jughead a pointed look and his shoulders seemed to perk. 

Betty immediately turned to look towards the door, and amidst the Chinese personnel, she saw a man so clearly caucasian trying to make his way to the exit inconspicuously. It wasn’t Kurtz, but it seemed reasonable to assume that they were related in some manner. 

The moment the man saw her looking, he gave a start and fled. 

Betty did not waste a single moment. She launched herself in pursuit, climbing and leaping over tables to get to the door. 

Behind her, she could hear Reggie and Jughead keeping up, but her focus was sharp on her suspect. Skirts bunched in her hands, she almost caught him just as he slammed the door in her face. 

Cursing as she lost precious seconds, she stepped back, swung the door open, and found that it led to a back alley outside the building, with a flight of stairs that rose to street level.

Her suspect was already at the top of the steps so Betty took the steps two at a time, swinging over the railing to follow after him. He ran down the alley and she sped after him. She could hear Jughead and Reggie following close behind. 

Seeing her suspect ahead, she was quick to employ her tried and true method. She picked up a discarded absinthe bottle, grasped it by the neck, and threw it with practiced accuracy. It spun in the air and met its mark with a dull thunk. The bottle bounced off the back of his head and he gave a cry of pain. The bottle shattered as it met its end against the alley’s stone pavement. 

The suspect fell and groaned, holding the back of his head in what Betty knew was a concussion induced haze. 

Reggie and Jughead came up on both sides of her. 

“You don’t pull punches at all, do you?” Reggie cried as he caught his breath and began to tear off his mask.

“It is her way,” Jughead said as he removed his mask, as well, the uptilt of a smile peeking from his lips. He advanced towards their suspect. 

“How did you know to look, Mantle?” Betty asked as they followed, untying her mask and throwing it aside.

“The manager said the ‘white man’s messenger’ was there.”

“But you said you don’t speak--”

“I lied.”

Betty had to admit that she was impressed. “And what else did you learn, eavesdropping on them?”

“The Luminary asked his assistant to forewarn Kurtz. That the CID were looking for him.”

Betty was at least glad that the Luminary actually thought they were the CID. 

As Jughead reached their suspect, he pushed his coat back and reached into his back pocket, revealing a set of metal cuffs. He grabbed their suspect’s wrists and bound them behind him. “We’re bringing him in for questioning.”

Betty wondered what procedure applied in a situation like this, where the suspect may or may not know about the Kin. “Do we bring him into New Kin?”

“There is a facility, here in New York,” Jughead replied. “Guild-managed, but established specifically for those we cannot bring into New Kin directly.”

The ins and outs of the Kin never ceases to amaze her. 

Jughead hauled their suspect to his feet, but they suddenly found themselves surrounded by seven strange men, each holding a weapon of some sort, meant to either inflict blunt force or cut with an edge. 

Betty reached for her weapons but remembered that they had left them at the Luminary’s front entrance. She sighed and made a sound of annoyance. 

Their suspect bolted out of Jughead’s grasp and ran down the alleyway. He was slow and still clumsy with his concussion. 

Jughead could only roll his eyes. “Honestly.”

“Jughead, go,” Betty said. “He might lead you straight to our man. If Kurtz’s goons got here so soon, it means--”

“The Luminary got the message to Kurtz quick. He can’t be far.” Jughead nodded, already moving to start his pursuit. “Think you can handle all this?”

Reggie frowned. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“You’d best hurry, Juggie,” Betty told him, sternly as she twisted her braid into a bun and jammed a pin right through it to keep it in place. “We’ll take care of this.”

Jughead was off, throwing a punch right at the man who had been poised to stop him. The man fell disoriented on the pavement and Jughead blew right past the others who descended upon Betty and Reggie. 

“Try not to kill anyone!” Jughead yelled as he shot down the alley and turned swiftly down the corner. 

“Same to you!” she cried after him, grinning. She took one edge of her skirt and tucked it into the waist of her belt. She was ready. 

As the men attacked, Betty let her instincts respond to the situation. A staff came at her and she dodged it as it sang past her ear, and in perfect rhythm, she took it in her hands as it whipped the air beside her. Gripping it firmly, she forced it to her will, planting one end of it to the ground and using it as leverage to throw a roundhouse knee right at the man’s startled face, knocking him unconscious. 

Now armed, she flipped the staff to knock down a second opponent with a swift rap to the head. He dropped his knife and Betty caught it by the hilt as it fell and sank it savagely right into the side of the man’s knee. His cry of pain as he dropped to one knee rang through the alley, but she was already off, running towards another man who was coming right at her with an upraised club. 

He charged her and she rushed to meet him, only for her to drop to her knees at the last second, sliding right beneath the swing of his weapon and slamming her stick against his shins. As he writhed with the impact of her hit, she turned and swung her stick at the back of his head, toppling him completely.

Someone grabbed her from behind with an arm around her neck, and the surprise of it made her drop her stick. His grip practically cut off her breathing, but this wasn’t the first time she would be grabbed from behind. Another one of his cronies came towards her, probably to help. This was  _ also  _ not the first time she would be outnumbered in a fight. She braced herself and kicked the man in front of her, sending him tumbling backwards while she used the force of the kick to slam the man behind her against the brick wall.

His grip loosened and she swung nimbly to his back, reversing their positions as she hooked her legs around him from his behind. She employed the arm bar--the same one she used at trials on Eversham, and within seconds, her opponent was sinking to the ground, until he fell limp and unconscious on the cobbled ground. 

As she untangled herself from her opponent, the second henchman seemed to have recovered, standing above her. She tried to dodge his fist but it caught her on the face. It was a glancing blow, but it impacted nonetheless, and for a few heartbeats, all she could see were stars. She felt him grab her by the waist, but she would not allow brute force to overcome her. She grabbed the knife hidden in her ankle and buried its blade right into his side. 

He screamed, letting her go as he collapsed to the ground. Betty found her footing, and even in spite of the ringing in her ear, she turned and swung her booted foot heavily at his jaw. He was instantly unconscious.

As she surveyed her handiwork, she saw five men down and realized that Reggie was just about overcoming his bowler-hatted opponent with a well-placed left hook to the chin. Mr. Bowler Hat dropped to the ground like a stone, and Reggie looked like he was ready to take on someone else, but he quickly realized that Betty had disposed of all them, by herself. 

He stared at her, aghast, and she shrugged, tasting blood in her mouth. She checked her teeth with her tongue and everything seemed firmly in place. She did have to spit blood out rather indelicately. 

_ To hell with it. _

“Betty, is that blood?” Reggie gasped, going to her. “Your face! Are you alright?” 

His hands were on her shoulders and she could not help but roll her eyes. “I’m quite alright, Mantle.” She realized, of course, that he had called her by her first name. She gently shook his hands off. “I’ve had worse.”

He blinked in surprise. “Worse. Where on earth have you been spending your time to have had worse?”

Jughead reappeared at the end of the alley, dragging with him a man distinctly different from the one who first ran away from them. He had Kurtz, cuffed and glaring. 

Jughead’s hat was gone, but other than that, he looked perfectly poised. As he got closer, he surveyed the bodies surrounding them before his gaze fell upon her. 

Sighing, he shoved Kurtz at Reggie and went to her. 

She frowned as he approached. 

“Let me see,” he said, firmly. 

She relented and let him cup her face in his hands. He looked at her with practiced observation. He pressed gently at her cheek with his thumb and she complained quietly at the building pressure. 

He scowled, tutting softly as he shook a handkerchief out of his pocket and gently wiping the blood off the corner of her lip. “Cheryl will have my head if she sees that shiner on your beautiful face, you know.” He said this in the most unromantic tone possible, of course. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered, pushing his hands off her, though she did it gently. She liked his closeness, even this way. 

“I’m fine, by the way,” Reggie said. “In case anyone was wondering.”

“Shut it, you,” Jughead said, casting him a withering glance. “I’d bet my Daemon that Betty did most of the work here.”

Reggie rolled his eyes and sighed, answering Jughead’s question with his lack of response. 

Perhaps feeling bad about that particular jibe, Jughead followed it up with, “Pretending not to speak Chinese, however--clever. Good work, Mantle.”

Reggie seemed more surprised than pleased by this praise and Betty was glad Jughead gave him his due. Without Reggie’s subterfuge, they never would have been able to catch their fleeing suspect, and without knowing that Kurtz had been warned by the Luminary, they might have taken much longer to find him. 

“What do we do with the rest of this mess?” Reggie asked at the pile of incapacitated bodies around them. 

Jughead crouched down to the ground and looked up at Betty.  _ “To stand ho timeth.” _

Her stomach tightened slightly with anxiety, and her gaze shifted to Reggie with unease. 

“He won’t know,” Jughead said in response to her wordless concerns.

He was right. If they froze this section of time and space, Reggie would freeze right with it, all of his memories just before it erased with the invocation, and it would give them the time they needed to wait for the Guild to arrive and collect everybody that needed collecting. Reggie would never know. 

Jughead began to draw the first part of the sigil on the ground with quick strokes, just like they practiced, and when he was done with his half, she finished the other half with the same chalk. 

“What sigil is that one?” Reggie asked. 

“A special one,” Jughead replied, cutting his hand and handing the same athame to Betty. 

She drew the blade across her palm and when Jughead held his hand out, she placed hers over his. Their blood mingled as it dripped upon the sigil and together, they spoke the invocation. “ _ lrasd ge cnila, oecrimi ca el.” _

_ By our blood, sanctify as one.  _

The sigil was invoked, and as it glowed in a blue haze, Betty summoned her Daemon just as Jughead did the same. 

Sabathiel appeared behind Jughead, placing a paw on his shoulder and Elemiah did the same with her. 

_ “Arp oi oanio,” _ Jughead said.  _ Capture this moment. _

_ “Cacrg ge trian i uls,” _ Betty finished.  _ Until our will is done. _

“What in the worl--”

Reggie never finished his question as the sigil activated in a burst of blue light.

When the light faded, everything around their close vicinity was grey, like a photograph, and it was frozen in time. Not a sound marred the picture, not a single speck of dust was disturbed from its place. Outside of their peripheral vision, they can hear the distant sounds of the city. 

Betty looked up at the sky and could see the clouds moving against its backdrop of blue, but a low flying flock of birds, just above them, hung suspended, their plumage greyed like statues. 

Betty lowered her gaze to meet Jughead’s and she saw that his eyes were an iridescent blue, a pinprick of black at the center of it. It looked strange, but they were the eyes of Elemiah, just as hers would be the eyes of Sabathiel. 

“Will you summon the Guild? Or should I?” Betty asked. 

Jughead tilted a smile. “Allow me.”

*****************

Hours after the Guild came and collected all the suspects in the alley, Reggie didn’t appear to show any apparently disorientation. His last memory in the alleyway was of Jughead kneeling on the ground to draw a sigil. Anything that came after that seemed fully wiped from his and the other perpetrators' memories. 

The only indication that anything could have been amiss was Reggie’s surprise at how quickly the Guild had arrived at the scene. 

Invalidating the sigil was as easy as calling their Daemons back into themselves, and as soon as they heard the approach of multiple footsteps, they ended the effects. Jughead just as easily scrapped away the sigil with his boot. 

All the suspects were brought in and it seemed that they did such a good job that Cheryl paid them a visit at Jughead’s tiny cubicle and said, “Minions, I am pleased. By all accounts, you did a wonderful job.”

Sometimes, Jughead could not abide by Cheryl’s nicknames, especially not now. 

He caught Betty’s eye, who was imploring him with her gaze to keep his temper, because of course she would know that Cheryl always brought out his sarcastic, uncharming self. 

“Don’t call me a minion,” was all he said, not a shred of humor in his tone.

“Haven’t had lunch, have we?”

He hadn’t. It took time to round up the suspects, register them, and finally settle down to take a breath, and now here was Cheryl, vexing him with her barbed pleasantries. 

He scowled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You are grouchy when you’re hungry. Everyone knows that.”

If she only knew what was really putting him in a foul mood. “Is there a particular reason you’re here, Ms. Blossom?”

She smiled, not at all discouraged by his unfriendly tone. She walked right in, a basket hanging from one arm and a folder in another. “I brought lunch. Just sandwiches, and some fresh squeezed lemonade to accompany it. I wanted to do something nice while I hand over your last assignment for partner trials.”

Cheryl dropped the basket right on his desk and started to unpack it. While he did appreciate her seeming thoughtfulness, he eyed her suspiciously, wondering what could possibly warrant this free lunch. 

“Now, I don’t know your preference, so I guessed,” Cheryl explained as she piled the sandwiches on the table. “But I kept it simple with these--watercress, apple, and chicken walnut salad for you, my lovely Betty, egg salad parmigiano with arugula for me, a thick ham with brie, broiled and seasoned to perfection in white wine and raspberry compote, glazed with extra virgin olive oil for Reggiekins, and a hearty beef brisket and sauerkraut with an au jus french dip for you, Mr. Jones. I chose rye for bread and--”

“Simple? By whose standards? William Waldorf Astor’s?”

Reggie choked on a laugh and he could see Betty rub lightly at her eyebrow in mild exasperation. 

He supposed he  _ could  _ be a little less sarcastic.

Cheryl flashed him a quick glare but she grinned nonetheless. “Listen to yourself! Keeping abreast of who’s Who with the Locked! But no, his standards do not apply here. I suppose these sandwiches aren’t of the common variety. I had our family chef prepare them, special, and delivered for my favorite recruits and their Senior, of course.”

She laid out bottles of the so-mentioned freshly squeezed lemonade and distributed the sandwiches accordingly. 

“What’s the case?” he asked, not at all distracted by the hefty sandwich and sealed dipping bowl being placed in front of him. 

“We need not talk about that  _ now _ ,” Cheryl replied. “We can discuss it after we’ve had our wonderful sandwiches.”

While Jughead appreciated the sandwiches, he was not going to let Cheryl sweeten his mood just yet. “Just tell us. The agita brought by your abnormally pleasant mood is making me lose my appetite.”

“Juggie…” Betty crooned softly as she gave him a pointed stare. 

“It’s true,” Jughead said. “Ms. Blossom is never this nice without a reason.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Very well.” She plopped the folder in front of him, on top of his sandwich and au jus, and took a seat, moving the basket to the floor with exaggerated flourish. “I told you we would have a night case--just after sundown. This case was deemed perfect for the third in the trials--it will require a lot of personnel. The more the merrier. You will be joining a big group, where you will board what is rumored to be a plague ship.”

_ “Fantastic.”  _

“Oh, shush. It gets better.”

“Or worse.”

“A matter of opinion.” Cheryl began to unwrap her sandwich from its paper and picked one half of it up. She took a bite and expressed how delicious her sandwich was. 

Impatient, Jughead opened the folder himself and read the summary description. What he saw made him scowl. “It’s a Wraith Lord hive. The Guild is sending in recruits to raid a Wraith Lord hive.” He wondered whose bright idea that was. He set the folder aside and folded his arms over the table. “Ms. Blossom.”

He could already see the excited gleam in Betty’s eyes and that only served to irk him even more. This was precisely what Cheryl had set out to do. She was delivering this news in front of him  _ and  _ the recruits so that he may be convinced by not one, but  _ three  _ people to take this very dangerous case. 

Cheryl was already waving a finger. “Before you say anything else--”

“It is a  _ dangerous  _ case. We don’t bring juniors into a boat load of Wraith Lords.”

“I am not a junior,” Betty said. 

He knew she would say that. “Betty, please.”

Cheryl scoffed. “They aren’t children, Jones. They are highly trained adults and in the case of Betty, experienced. But if you thought this was my idea, this was not. Guardian Weatherbee was the one who suggested we add the recruits to the cleanup crew. They will be perfect for collecting suspects, transporting them, and completing the paperwork for this. And really, don’t be such a hag, Jones. Brett Weston Wallis jumped at the chance to take point on this.”

Jughead’s annoyance bubbled hot, but he refused to raise his voice, as the last thing he wanted was for Cheryl to think she could affect him so. “Brett Weston Wallis is a raging idiot.”

“Show him who’s boss, Jones!” Reggie interjected.

Jughead shot Reggie a glare, and before Reggie could say anything else, he was addressing Cheryl again. “If Wallis is leading this, I would rather swallow glass.”

“Jones, why do you still doubt me?” Cheryl said in a triumphant tone. “I told them the same thing, but my pitch to have you take point went far easier than I expected. It seems you have friends in high places, even _without _your mother in the room. Guildsman Honey immediately seconded my proposal. You’ve led raids before. You know how to look at the facts and lead a team safely into enemy territory. You’re smart, Jones. Everybody knows that, and the Guild wants to see you back in a leadership role--they think your self-imposed hiatus on that front should come to a close.”

Jughead stood and went to the window, cranking it open as he took a cigarette from inside his coat. Nobody stopped him, and as he lit his cigarette, he could feel their eyes on him, even with his back turned. The last time he led anything, Trevor was still alive. 

He knew this day would come, when they would expect him to step up and lead again. 

If Cheryl knew--if anybody knew what a mess he made of himself after Trevor’s death, nobody would trust him again. It almost made him laugh. 

And now here he was, being asked to lead a team without his prompting. He wasn’t afraid. He could probably do this, but he couldn’t help but wonder what it was that was keeping him, even as he stood there, his hand in his pocket and a vial of opium tablets rolling between his thumb and forefinger.

How easily did the Luminary slip it into his pocket unnoticed? The Luminary knew that all it took was a hit and he would be back in the opium den, a regular customer. It made Jughead mad, how easily these substances could consume his thoughts. How it dissolved holes into his thoughts of Betty.

_ Might be a good time for a distraction,  _ came Elemiah’s voice. 

“Your choices are limited, Jones,” Cheryl said. “If you don’t go on this raid, you and your recruits won’t have a third case for partner trials and you’ll be marked as incomplete. Whereas if you decide to join, you may or may not choose to lead it.”

He turned around to face her, cigarette bobbing from his mouth. “And this is for tonight?”

Cheryl nodded. “After you’ve had your lunch, I am to take you to Strategy. Your father will be there, along with other team captains. The raiding party will gather later at 6, recruits included, and if you take point, will receive your instructions.”

He may have had plans before this--before the temptations took hold. He might have wanted to look into Mr. Theo Putnam and Ms. Rosalind Walker. He might have had an inkling to spend time with Betty, practicing their sigils, or their  _ dancing. _

But Elemiah was right. He needed this distraction.

It would take his attention away from that tiny little vial in his pocket. 

_ Day by day, Forsythe.  _

He caught Betty’s gaze and she nodded, perhaps in encouragement. 

“I need my recruits to be there,” he said. He needed Betty, but it would be too much to explain if he didn’t include Reggie with them. 

To fight the wraith within, he must fight the wraith lords on the outside.

“Done,” Cheryl said, grinning in triumph. 

He turned back to the window to finish his cigarette.

_ Day by day.  _

  
  
  
  



	14. What Wraith Exists in Us All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, have you read chapter 13 yet? If you haven't, you might have skipped a chapter. Go back one! If you have read Chapter 13: In Truth, There's Pain, then carry on. Hope you like this next one.

Jughead did like to analyze what information was on-hand, to look at layouts and numbers, to listen to the Reapers as they summarized the mountain of data into manageable hills. He even liked it when he had to come to an accord with captains he most often disagreed with. 

Collaborations put him in a better frame of mind, and it was clear that everyone was pleased by the way he was finalizing plans. He was good at this, at functioning in spite of his addictions. If he was able to function under the influence before, then he certainly can do better sober. 

Everything was under control, but as he stepped out for a brief smoke, Betty asked if she could join him, and as he stood from the top of Guildsman Hall’s frontage steps, she asked him, gently, if he was alright. 

“You’ve been a little--disengaged since this morning,” she said, the distance she was putting between them distinct. “And if you do not wish to discuss this, I will leave you be.”

None of this was her fault. He had been consumed by today’s trials--being at the Luminary’s, wrestling with the vial in his coat pocket, formulating the plans for the raid. There hadn’t been an opportunity to be with her or to show her his appreciation for giving him space. 

She had worked tirelessly, all day, to fulfill the tasks that were given to her, doing the work so that she might earn her voice in that room of mostly men. 

Strategy was composed of both Peace Dealers and Reapers. Among the Reapers, women were more commonly employed, and Betty had found allies among them quickly, like Ethel Muggs. Donna Sweets was not as friendly to her, but they seemed to have come to an uneasy civility. 

Betty had been engaged, all day, and he couldn’t possibly turn her away.

“Stay,” he said, softly. “I apologize--for being cold.”

She shook her head. “Not cold. Preoccupied. You seem to have a lot on your mind, and that was before all  _ this.” _

He nodded, knowing full well that he had shut everyone out, but she had felt it the most, because she had never been on the other side of that door. “Between my mother, Charles’s history, and tonight’s mission, I’ve been distracted. I’m sorry, my love. You deserve better.”

She chuckled, softly. “God, no. It’s nothing like that. I’d hope I was not so clingy. What I wish to convey is that I am here for you. If there is anything I can do to help ease your burdens--”

“You are helping immensely, Betty. Your presence and support mean everything.” He meant it. Every word of it, even when he worried about Wraith Lords and the safety of the Peace Dealers under his leadership, but he did not want her to worry. He wanted her to focus on tonight, and what she could do. “Did you really beat up five men all by yourself?”

She rolled her eyes, but laughed. “I was not counting, but it seemed that was the case. They were untrained, and one of them gave me a stick.”

She was extraordinary, and he wished he could have been there to see it. The way Reggie described it, one would think Betty had gone about it like a ballerina, and Jughead had no doubts that she would have been an impressive sight, even as Betty grumbled that Reggie was grossly exaggerating on every point. 

“Oh, a stick,” Jughead teased. “Of course.  _ That  _ did it.”

“Blunt force objects are my specialty.” She grinned, though he could tell by the steely look in her eyes that she meant this. “If I could use something to hit with, I will do so efficiently.”

“Charles taught you how?”

A soft sigh escaped her and for a moment, all she did was watch the busy streets around them. “He taught me everything. I am what I am now because of him.”

He held his hand out for hers and the warmth of her palm soothed his nerves. It pained him to know that his mother had cast Betty’s love for Charles in doubt, and it worried him that his own secrets would erode the trust between him and Betty. 

“Jones.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw Reggie, clearly trying his best to ignore the sight of their interlocked hands after having noted it with a quick glance. 

They were a decent distance apart, and there was nothing particularly intimate about their hand-holding, but they had kept it fairly professional in front of others so far and this may come across as the opposite. That Betty pulled gently away made his irritation for Reggie resurface, but it was the appropriate response in any case. He wanted nothing more than to tell Reggie that Betty was quite unavailable to take suitors, but that was a conversation only she had a right to initiate. 

Reggie, however, gallantly continued as if nothing was amiss. “They are getting ready for the briefing.”

“I’ll be right inside.”

“I’ll walk back with you, Mantle,” Betty said. “We’ll be at our places, Jughead.”

He nodded and watched them go. 

When he was alone, he realized that the vial, though featherlight, weighed heavy in his pocket. 

Sighing, he walked back inside. 

****************

The docks were lit with moonlight, with solitary lamps dotting the dark, like pinpricks in a sea of shadows. 

The massive ship, anchored a quarter of a mile off shore, was a large steam-powered vessel, over 300 feet in length 40 feet wide, and with depth of hold of 30 feet, but a bow above water rising another 25 feet. It was large enough to be a passenger cruise ship, akin to those docking from Italy or Britain, carrying its wealthiest citizens, but this ship, known as the Persephone, would be bereft of any of the luxuries of a cruise liner. It was a cargo ship, with wide hollow spaces within its hull and hold. 

Its deck appeared lifeless at first glance, but a quick look through Kin technology-enhanced binoculars illuminated the multiple sentinels guarding its cargo--Wraith Lord cargo. 

Betty hadn’t encountered Wraith Lords until that night one kidnapped and attacked her in Riverdale, but she’d known of their existence--rogue Kin who found immense power and got addicted to the collection of Daemons from others. It required murder, oftentimes preceded by torture, for how else could someone’s Daemon be called unless one knew it’s name? Daemons forced to serve another were doomed to dissolve into the aether, eventually, so a Wraith Lord needed to keep collecting, and killing, and torturing, but they were capable of such immense power, and they could do things no respectable Kinman or Peace Dealer can. 

Wraith Lords relied on human henchmen to guard the entrances of their resting places. The physics of the universe dictated that all its beings, normal or paranormal, needed to replenish its strengths. No power was indefinite, no being excluded from its depletion. People needed sleep, spirits needed energy, and Wraith Lords were not exempt from natural law. 

Wraith Lords could go weeks without resting, but when they did need to recover, it could take them days. Wraith Lords were solitary hunters, but they rested in hives. They fed off one another’s energies, optimizing their replenishment, and as they did so, they were collectively guarded by paid security. From a funding view point, this was a practical endeavor, but as effective as this was, it was also prone to discovery. 

This was the first time a hive had taken residence in a moving, operational ship, and it took months of careful observation to discover them. The Kin had an advantage in that the hive did not know they’d been discovered. 

But as Jughead emphasized, Wraith Lords were dangerous in any setting. The higher level ones certainly are the most dangerous of them all. Young Wraith Lords were only just coming into their power, chaotic and clumsy. They were easy to find, easy to rattle, and more often easy to catch, though still almost impossible for a Peace Dealer to catch alone. When apprehending Wraith Lords, Peace Dealers had to do so in pairs. 

Higher Level Wraith Lords, older ones, had adapted to their new selves. They had mastered the requirements of their power, learned how to wield it more effectively. They could disguise themselves, make a convincing illusion of humanity, tangible, like skin and bone and matter, even if inside, they were made of nothing but corrupted energy. 

Hives like these kept a good range--from young to old, but there was only ever one or two high-level Wraith Lords in a hive.

The Persephone had one known High Level, the rest were mid to low-level. Their main mission was to dissolve the hive, collect the mid to low-level Wraith Lords, and should they encounter the High Level Wraith Lord, they should do so as a unit--never alone. 

There were twelve men on deck spread out through the corridor, so the advanced party would have intervals in between to incapacitate each without sounding the alarm.

A stealth team was to be employed in advance of the raiding party, tasked with dispatching the twelve guards as quietly as possible and clear the area so that the ship may be boarded by the rest of the team of thirty or so Peace Dealers, all of whom were waiting from cloaked boats drifting just off shore.

The advanced party was a task for the twins, Peace Dealers Jivin and Jayesh--notoriously efficient and effective for operations such as these, where stealth and efficiency would be required. 

It was in operations such as these where the full breadth of Kin technology was employed.

Betty was dressed in unreletending black, with a fitted blouse strapped into place by belts and holsters, and trousers in the same color. Her golden hair was covered in a knitted cap, her hands and feet protected in high quality leather. All Peace Dealers were similarly dressed and equipped, with the best technology their Inventions department had to offer. 

The advanced party rounded the ship by a small boat, driven and glamoured by their logistics specialist. There was still a risk that at least one of the guards would be a Seer and notice them, but Wraith Lords rarely employed Seers. It was too high of a risk. Seers could report them. The Locked, in their total ignorance, could not. 

As Betty watched the twins’ boat maneuver to the side of the ship, Betty felt the rush of adrenaline sharpen her focus. She knew that any minute now, they would signal that the deck was clear and that the rest of them would be boarding after them. 

“We should be with Jivin and Jayesh,” Betty told Jughead in a low voice. “You know we can do it.”

Jughead made a soft sound and chuckled under his breath. “Just because you bested five men at once, it does not mean you will be authorized to go with Jivin and Jayesh to find trouble.”

She could not help but grin at the very real notion that she did constantly go looking for trouble and that Jughead knew it. She tutted teasingly. “Is that what you think I want? Trouble?”

He titled a smile, but the tension from his shoulders did not ease in the least. “Betts. I need you to temper your daring for this one. You are not invulnerable.”

She stifled a sigh. She understood that he had a lot on his mind, so she did not wish to make his deathly serious mood about her, but she was not used to this Jughead, the one who could not spare a moment of humor. 

Not a sound disturbed the silence, and Betty could only watch Jughead count the seconds on his pocket watch. There was smoke from the deck, but no explosions. Jughead did not seem concerned, and Betty remembered the mention of “smoke bombs” when Jughead was briefing the twins. 

The smoke cleared, two small objects were jettisoned over the railings and fell into the water with small, distant splashes, and then all was still once again. After what felt like an eternity, Jughead looked up from the watch, and seconds later, the signal came in the form of pinpricks of light, flashing in code. 

“Let’s go,” Jughead told Moose. 

The boats moved silently to the side of the ship, and once they were starboard, Jughead gave her and everyone a nod. 

_ Sabathiel, shall we? _

Sabathiel manifested, and altogether, the Kinman donned their Daemon’s, so that it seemed there wasn’t a trace of Kin, but for Moose, left on the boat. As Daemons, they scaled the side of the ship to board the Persephone. 

****************

All twelve guards were tied and muffled by the time Betty found herself on the deck of the ship. And as everyone fell into formation to enter the hold, Betty was fascinated by the sight of so many Peace Dealers in one place. Daemons were now perched on their respective Kinman’s shoulder, preparing for their encounter with Wraith Lords.

Most fascinating of all were the captains, leading their teams and taking their cues from Jughead Jones. She realized that she’d only ever gone on solitary missions with Jughead. Even in Riverdale, she’d only seen him working with Charles and deferring to his older brother on what should or shouldn’t be done. She had only heard about the Serpents wanting him to lead, so she had never seen him tell large groups of people what to do. 

This was a side of him she was seeing for the first time and she was certainly not immune to its appeal. It was his confidence, and the certainty of how his way was the right way. If his partner’s death had diminished his will to lead in any way--this magnificent side of him that could inspire a task force of over thirty men and women to heed his recommendations and his commands, then she wished he would eventually share with her the debilitating pain of his partner’s loss, if only to help carry that burden.

But all that was for another time. For now, she had the privilege of joining this mission, watching Jughead lead, learn the inner workings of Peace Dealers and the Guild, witness the awesome power of Kin technology, and work with her people. This was a scenario she never would have imagined before, living and skulking about in Riverdale and the Southside. 

They stormed the hive with sigils and Daemons blazing. Betty, who was using some of the most extraordinary equipment for the first time in her life, found that while she still kept a close affinity with blunt force weapons, she rather liked the innovation and gadgetry, the implements and contraptions, equipment designed to make raids swift and effective. 

And when the inventions had done all it can, the Peace Dealers brought to the fore their training and skills. 

The Wraith Lords scattered and fled, some of them easily contained in sigiled restraints, like chains and cuffs. Some fought back, dangerously skilled in wielding their stolen Daemons, causing explosive fights and flaring sigil casts, but wherever pockets of chaos erupted, the Peace Dealers and their organized attack prevailed.

Peace Dealer numbers alone skewed the raid to their advantage. 

Jughead, with Elemiah walking by his side, disarmed Wraith Lords with practiced skill. Betty could tell he was experienced at this, and the enemy could barely get past him. It had been years since Betty saw Jughead in a fight, and she saw that he had improved dramatically since then, using tactics familiar to what Charles taught them, interspersed with the cold, ruthless efficiency no doubt taught by the academy.

Those who got past him dealt with  _ her _ , and while she hadn’t had as much experience with Wraith Lords, her first encounter with them had given her an understanding of what to expect, and she was always handier in a fight when she knew what she was up against. 

Though she had to admit, these Wraith Lords were far more terrifying than the one she encountered in Riverdale. Or maybe it was just the Wraith Weed they were required to take before this operation began. 

These Wraith Lords had progressed from their humanity, taking on a ghastly form, their humanity half-decaying, with the energy of their stolen Daemons eating through their bodies. They glowed like phantoms through their eroded flesh. They could reach into the living and pull out their guts. They wielded Daemons like weapons, possessing humans and exploding them from within to consume their souls. 

Cheryl was right. They were worse than vampires. 

Higher level Wraith Lords, older Wraith Lords, managed to regain the visage of their human forms, but it would be earned from countless murdered souls. Their powers were great and they were the most dangerous ones, particularly because they blended more easily with humans. Upon closer observation, they looked like wax figures, perfect like porcelain. Their human eyes turned an onyx shade, no whites, when they invoked their powers.

There was one such Wraith Lord in this hive, often designated by the others as The First. It took an old Wraith Lord to gather others around them to form a hive. 

As she advanced with Jughead through the hold, they found themselves staring down a woman at the far end of a hallway, with perfect skin and close cropped hair. 

“Jug, is that--”

He nodded. “That’s her. The First. Betty, get behind me.”

The Wraith Lord’s Daemons rose behind her, and for a moment, all Betty could do was stare as the sigils drawn on the Wraith Lords arms glowed purple. Her eyes were like midnight and her skin grew pale like death. 

When she charged, she did so with explosive speed and Jughead quickly summoned Elemiah, whose wings expanded and glowed like blue flames, enclosing them both in this protective embrace. 

That first surge exploded against Elemiah’s back like a bomb, sending debris flying everywhere. 

The Wraith Lord dragged her Daemons back into her and fled. That initial attack had to have cost her an enormous amount of power, because some of her human form had shed away, revealing the phantom beneath the facade. 

Betty saw a murderer getting away and her instincts reared. She burst into a sprint, going after her. She vaguely heard her name being called, possibly with urgent despair, but Betty had her sights set. 

She took the standard-issue chain restraints from her hips and threw it at the fleeing Wraith Lord. It whipped into the air and entangled around the Wraith Lord’s legs, sending her crashing to the floor. But her reaction was immediate, taking on the form of one of her serpent Daemons, which enabled her to slither right out. 

She immediately turned to meet Betty’s attack, and Betty took on Sabathiel’s form as she launched into the air, fist formed into a punch. It landed firmly onto the Wraith Lord’s now misshapen face. It sent the Wraith Lord spinning, but she was quick to recover, summoning a Daemon Wraith to kick Sabathiel in the midriff and send her flying back. 

Elemiah swept past her, tackling the Daemon Wraith to the ground. The Daemon Wraith faded under his grasp and reappeared over Sabathiel, a spectral claw raised to strike Sabathiel down. 

Sabathiel rolled out of the way of the blade’s arc and batted it away with her wing, which sent the Daemon thrashing to the side and dissipating back into its master. 

Betty took Sabathiel back in, attacking the Wraith Lord who was now half back in her human trappings, and Betty found that the Wraith Lord possessed fighting skills equal to her own. She had blades and she knew how to use them. Jughead jumped into the fight with her, blocking the blade that might have sank into Betty’s back if his weapon hadn’t been there to stop it. 

Betty did not waste a second. She swept the Wraith Lord’s legs from beneath her, sending her crashing to the ground, but the Wraith Lord was up in a heartbeat, clutching Betty’s arm in her hands and twisting. 

Betty had no choice but to compensate, lest her arm break or get dislocated, and Betty screamed the vilest profanities as she lost her footing. The Wraith Lord gained ground and Betty scrambled to recover. 

Jughead kicked the Wraith Lord away, sending her flying. 

He turned to Betty, his worry drawn clearly on his face, and Betty, her veins rushing with adrenaline, felt a surge of rebellious rage. Without losing another second, she rushed past Jughead, intent on catching this Wraith Lord who dared to best her. 

Jughead’s voice faded into the background. He might have ordered her to stop, to desist, to abandon the chase, but Betty refused to hear him. 

The Wraith Lord dodged and jumped over obstacles, and Betty, intent on the capture, followed with agility and determination. 

As they approached the stern, Betty thought the Wraith Lord had exhausted her escape, but the Wraith Lord climbed nimbly up the railing, looked over her shoulder, and gave a taunting smile. A flash of Daemon light blinded Betty for a heartbeat, but as the light cleared, she saw the Wraith Lord raise her arms before she jumped off the railing in a swan-like dive. 

Betty hardly gave it a second thought. She leaped to the top of the railing and pushed herself off the edge, but as she began to drop, she felt the grip of a chain around her ankle, her fall abruptly and jarringly halted, where she hung gracelessly off the edge of the boat. The chain bit around her skin, and her cry of shock rang through the open air. 

“I had her!” she screamed, furiously.

_ “No,  _ Betty,” Jughead yelled back, teeth grit with the effort of carrying her weight. “She had  _ you!”  _

As he pulled her back on board, she could see that he had wedged his body against the side, and when she was near enough, he grabbed her by the back of her blouse, hauling her over the railing with a very firm grip. 

“Are you alright?” he gasped. 

She shook his hands away. “Why did you stop me? I know how to dive into water! I know how to swim!” she cried. 

His worried expression dissolved into a steely scowl. He took her by the shoulders and made her look over the railing. Beneath them, the waves lapped softly, but jagged rocks stood out from the dark waters, clear under the moonlight. 

Betty felt the blood draining from her face. “B-But, that was water. I swear, I saw her dive into it!”

“It’s what she made you see. Did you not notice her last invocation? You might have seen a flash of light. She made you see what she wanted you to see--that is the Wraith Lord power. They have easy access to certain casts--their multiple Daemons make it possible. There is nothing more dangerous than a Wraith Lord in flight, Betty. You would have known that if you listened to me screaming at you when you were running after her.”

“I didn’t--I wasn’t--”

“You  _ didn’t  _ listen. You  _ never  _ listen. You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

His tone was one of anger and impatience, his arm flailing towards the edge of the boat. He had never used such a tone on her until now, he had never looked at her with such grinding dismay, and her earlier feelings of rebellion withered, reducing to uncertainty. She felt chastised, trying to piece together where she might have crossed the line and merited his anger. 

“I’m sorry. I should have listened,” she said, automatically, pleadingly. She did not want him to be angry with her. She just wanted the hard look in his eyes to soften. 

But this time, he was not so easy. “We are matched in most things, Betty, but you have never dealt with a Wraith Lord, let alone one as old as that. I asked you earlier to temper your daring, so I wonder what was so hard to comprehend about that request. If we are to be partners, I need to know whether my advice holds any weight for you, because I am just as responsible for your safety as you are with mine. I cannot have another--” He threw up his hands and looked away, blowing a breath through his lips. 

Her stomach twisted, knowing what he was about to say.  _ I cannot have another partner die.  _ Her regret was gaining ground and she began to parse all his words, branding itself into her conscience. “Juggie,” she began softly. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking…”

He didn’t respond to her apology. He turned away. “The worst of it is over. You should help the rest of the unit transport the prisoners. I need to stay here and make sure everything else goes as planned.”

His coldness hit her like a sudden frost, but he was already walking away, and if she let her emotions overcome her, she might actually begin to cry, so she straightened her shoulders and did as she was told. 

Even this way, she could be useful. 

She could perhaps try to beg Jughead’s forgiveness later, when the work was done and the danger had completely passed. 

**************

Betty felt unnerved by Jughead’s deliberate avoidance of her, but in her self-evaluation, she understood why he was so angry. 

If he had been so reckless, she might be inclined to refuse him company for a week, just to hammer in the lesson. She hoped he wasn’t as ruthless. 

Still, this was Jughead. Perhaps he had spoiled her. Indulged her too often. She had come to expect his fondness and admiration. This anger and displeasure--she did not know how to deal with it. 

She decided, however, that she would not dwell on it for the moment, or else she would go mad. She did exactly what Jughead asked to do, distracting herself by helping put the rest of the Wraith Lords away, keeping them restrained, and hauling them to the only facility in the city that could contain them--the Guild dungeons. 

As the last of the Wraith Lords were taken away, Jughead ordered everyone back to headquarters for debriefing, and when still, he didn’t look at her, she sighed and hurried to catch one of the transport carriages. 

She boarded one of the half dozen that were preparing to leave and found that Reggie and Munroe were among its other passengers. Reggie’s grin at the sight of her was instantaneous. Given the state of things, she could appreciate a friendly face. 

She returned his grin with a faint smile of her own as she settled into one of the many seats. 

“Glad you can join us, Cooper,” Reggie said. “I thought you’d be heading back with Jones.”

“He still has some things to attend to. He’ll find his own way back to Guildsman Hall, probably with Mr. Mason.”

“And here I thought you were his point-person tonight,” Munroe remarked. 

Betty knew he meant nothing by it, so she smiled at him and said, “Sometimes we work best together, separately.” 

Which, in hindsight, was a terribly telling thing to say. She noted Reggie and Munroe exchanging glances, and she wondered if her argument with Jughead had been loud enough for everyone to hear. 

“I would strongly advise that you don’t fight with your senior, Cooper,” Reggie said. 

She groaned. “Excellent. Everyone heard that, did they?”

“Not everyone,” Reggie said, hastily. “Just me. I just happened to follow after you both--I mean, he’s my senior and you're my partner…”

_ Right.  _

“It was odd, seeing him mad at you,” Reggie said, as if to confess his own feelings. “He is never mad at you. He is always so-- ” he seemed to be searching for the words “-- _ fond  _ of your grit and all manner of antics you put up.”

She deferred from commenting. This was as strange to her as it was for Reggie. 

“What did you do? Shoot his dog?” Munroe asked. 

She dealt him a scowl but found herself laughing just as quickly. “Jughead does not have a dog, but if he did, I would never shoot it. Let that be clear. And Mantle, what was that about my grit and antics? Do I present as such? I prefer the terms pluck and high jinks.”

“You need only ask, Cooper. I will do anything you ask of me.” Reggie winked, and Betty could only roll her eyes. 

Munroe hooted, nudging Reggie’s shoulder good naturedly and prompting everyone else in the transport to tease him, and her, as well. 

Betty tried to occupy her mind for the time being, even as she felt an ache to be with Jughead, making up with him and doing all manner of things to seal it. 

************

She was in the common area of the main conference hall, fresh from the locker room showers and a clean set of clothing, when Jughead arrived, back from the scene of the raid. 

He was still in the black raiding suit, he still seemed incredibly busy with all the other captains surrounding him, so she did not go to him, allowing him the space he needed at the moment. 

There was paperwork to be submitted and filed, interviews to be completed, and signatures to be obtained. This was all part of the process, and the recruits were given this unsavory task, so she wasn’t idle, pining uselessly after him. 

It took hours, and it was far past midnight by the time she completed her final report. The conference hall was emptying of personnel and silence was descending. There were still captains and Guardians milling about, but their conversations were muted, some laughing, which perhaps meant business was done. 

The last of the recruits walked out of the doors, and so when Jughead approached, hair still damp from what were likely the shower rooms, and looking more like his old self, she was mildly surprised by this easy transition, especially when he sat at the edge of the conference table by her side. 

“My work is done. Final briefings have been set for tomorrow morning at ten thirty and everyone needs their rest. Are you ready to head home, Betty?” His old, gentle tone was back and it brought her so much relief. 

“Yes, I am.” Her smile still held some caution, but when he tilted his head to walk with him, she was quick to follow him and walk in step. In the silence of the corridors, he took her hand and draped it over his arm. 

There was a carriage waiting for them at the curb, but it was just the Jones carriage, not the autocarriage, and when they were secured inside, he sank back in his seat, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back on the rest. 

“This day,” he said between heavy sighs, “felt like an eternity, Betty.”

She nodded, knowing full well that he’d been in a mood since the last time they left home, which was over fifteen hours ago. She knew that there were many things that were going on his mind, not much different from hers, but somehow, it seemed to weigh heavier on him. Perhaps they can talk about some of it. 

“Do you forgive me?” she asked. “For what I did?”

He cracked an eye open and held out his hand. “You are so far away. Won’t you sit by me?”

Her heart fluttered at his tender demand and she took his hand, crossing the small distance between her seat across from him and the space beside him. She settled in his embrace as the carriage swayed over the cobbled streets. 

“Betts, I could never stay angry with you,” he said, softly. “And that anger… I confess that much of it was undeserved. There were… a lot of other things in it that wasn’t your fault. For that, I am sorry. “

She shook her head and looked him in the eyes. “Juggie, you so often indulge me. You let me hold sway with things that I probably should be called to account for. You have spoiled me and I have taken full advantage. You were right to get angry at my recklessness. You were right. I refused to listen to you. I was bullheaded and impulsive.”

He chuckled, twirling his fingers in a lock of her hair, which she knew was a good sign. He seemed to find comfort in it, so she let him, and as his smile waned, something else seemed to settle in his expression. “There is something I need to tell you, Betty. Something I’ve kept from you, because I was afraid--of what you’d think of me.”

This was yet another tone he’d never used on her before, and it made her nervous. “What is it, Juggie?”

He hesitated, his fingers idly tracing the bones on her shoulder. “I will tell you all about it at home.”

She nodded, fighting the urge to convince him to tell her now. She laid her head against the crook of his shoulder and she felt his arm tighten around her. The touch of his lips on her forehead made her sigh and close her eyes in quiet contentment, and she let the sounds of the carriage settle her tightening nerves. 

**************

They were on the rooftop again, watching the city beneath. New Kin was quiet at this hour, or maybe it was just their part of town, where there were no pubs or gangs to keep the streets alive at so late an hour. 

Jughead’s gaze was trained to the Menhir lights in the distance, his hand firmly in his pocket. He’d kept it there since they arrived home, she noticed, and she wondered if there was something in it that was of any significance. 

She leaned back against the railing, waiting for him to speak. 

“Do you remember,” he began, “when I told you the other day about the time that I lost sight of myself, fashioning myself after the Stonewall elite. I told you I grew arrogant, perhaps careless, you asked me to give you an example of what made me so horrible.”

She nodded, growing worried by the look of defeat in his eyes. “Yes, and I told you that you can tell me when you’re ready and not before that.”

He laughed softly. “I don’t know if I shall ever be ready. It is--” he sighed “--a deep shame of mine. I don’t know if things would have been different if my attitude were different, but at the time, that arrogance and carelessness--I got my partner killed, Betty. Trevor was fearless and my arrogance did not temper him. I thought we were both invincible, but there is no such thing. Not at the trajectory of a bullet.”

Her heart constricted at the broken look in his eyes, the way his shoulders hung heavy at his sides. “Juggie, no. It wasn’t you who pulled that trigger.”

He shook his head, refusing her words of comfort. “The lack of respect for spirits and the dangers of our world--” he waved his hand in front of him, as if to sweep it over the view of the city, “--they get lost in the numbers. I should have been the voice of reason between Trevor and I. I should have been the one to curtail our recklessness, instead I encouraged it. I thought it fun and invigorating, and the skills that Charles taught you and I--I thought I was better than everyone else.”

His brows knit, as if a painful memory pinched it, and she could only look on with compassion. 

He raked his fingers through his hair, his eyes trained to horizon. “It was a gun. It went off and he was right in its path. I tried to stop it--get between him and the bullet, but I--” He put his arm out, showing the brace that supported it. “I wasn’t fast enough. The bullet tore through my arm and reached Trev anyway, and just like that, he was dead. I had to be the one to explain it to Valerie, how it happened, but she’d already known for days before that he was dead. My excuse was that my arm was in bad shape, that the physicians ordered me to rest, but I knew it was because I was afraid to face her. I put it off for as long as my conscience allowed me.”

Betty placed both of her hands upon his brace. “And why did this heal so poorly? Did you not use your Daemon to make it better?”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t, Betty. My guilt wouldn’t let me. The pain of healing was immense, but I thought of it as a penance of some sort. I said to myself that my Kin constitution would make it all better in the end, but efficiency does not equal effectivity. My arm remained weak and the pain was--ongoing. It turns out that the Kin do not heal better than the Locked. We just do it faster. The Daemon would have repaired my injury right quick, but again, I was stubborn and arrogant and mistakes were made. The pain that I thought was penance became my ultimate failure.”

She had many objections to that, but he did not seem open to hearing them. Not yet. He wanted her to listen and she watched his face descend into self-loathing. 

“I am broken, Betty,” he said, softly. “An addict. I took opiates, morphine, and cocaine. Drank it, snorted it, injected it--rubbed it in my teeth when there was too little left to ingest is any other way. I started taking them to relieve my pain and my guilt, and to quiet the dreams that reminded me of how Trevor was killed, but it became a habit, and then I could not do without it. I grew dependent on those medications, and I made hideous decisions under the influence of them--I missed work, I skipped obligations, I made excuses--in spite of all that I was functioning, somehow. Perhaps people made excuses for me, too. I was the best Stonewall and the Guild had seen in a long while. Nobody but my parents knew that there had been times I hardly knew what I was doing--waking up in situations that I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember how I got to in the first place. I was a disgrace.”

Betty was quiet, and she could not deny that she was surprised. She remembered his anger at his own father for being a slave to his vices, so to hear Jughead admit that he had fallen prey to the same habits was astounding, scarcely believable, even, for she had always perceived him strong enough to overcome anything. 

His anger at her recklessness earlier seemed to make sense in every aspect, now. “How long since you last touched the opiates?”

“Since I last ingested them,” he said, as if to correct her. “Ten months. The longest I’ve been able to resist.” He pulled something out of his pocket and placed it upon the edge of the railing. “The Luminary gave this to me this morning. They are opium tablets. You put them in a pipe, dissolve them, and smoke them.”

She stared at the glass vial with the little tablets in it, shocked that he had carried that in his pocket the entire day. “The Luminary.”

“He and I are old friends. He knew who I was the moment I walked through his doors.”

She had to take a moment, realizing that he had spoken lies.  _ To her,  _ but this was all part of his confessions. All part of the story, and as much as it stung, she had to remind herself that  _ now  _ he was telling the truth. Laying himself bare. 

She quieted her hurt and blurted out the first question that came to mind. “And have you smoked any--”

He shook his head, quickly. Unhesitatingly. “No. I have not opened that vial, but by God, I have been fighting the urge all day. Until this morning, my cravings have been quiet for months.”

Her feelings of relief were entangled with her worry, especially since he appeared to have so much more to say.

“Betty, it's been my fear that my addictions may bring harm to you. Even now, I remain uncertain if losing control of that situation with you, me, and the Wraith Lord during the raid couldn’t be attributed to having that opium in my pocket. I never left that vial behind, and I wonder, until now, when I thought I might have need of it. Where-- _ how  _ would I even smoke it? I’ve disposed of all my implements. I would have to run back to the Luminary to purchase--” he stopped, lightly pounding a fist against the railing as he sighed. “You could have been killed, Betty. So yes, I’ve wondered if keeping this relationship with you is wise. There are far too many things that can go wrong with me and I don’t want to ruin your life.”

She let his words sink in and she was afraid, suddenly, of where this was headed. 

She didn’t understand everything about intoxicating substances and being dependent on them, but she knew their destructive force--had seen some of it in FP and perhaps on a few other lushes in the Southside, but Jughead was stronger than all of them. She knew that in her bones. She knew that even now. “You have managed so well, Juggie.”

“That’s what I believed, until this morning. I was thinking in the carriage home; I don’t know what all this means--us being Daemon Bound and me suffering a senseless addiction while we learn to be bound in fate and purpose. I love you so,  _ so  _ much, and you make me want to be a better man, but addiction is ugly and devastating. I don’t want to subject you to it in any way. I am sober. Will keep trying to be sober, but what if I fail? You might not notice it,  _ or  _ you may have to drag me, half-dead, from the Luminary’s drug den.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t know what’s worse--functioning while compromised or having you see me in my indignity. Surely you deserve better.”

Panic blossomed from her belly and she struggled to stamp it. 

She went to him, clasped his hands, and forced him to look her in the eyes. “That is not the discussion here. It is not about what I deserve, it is about what is good for both of us. And I want to be there for you. We are better together. We’ve talked about this, and the fact that you successfully spent the day without uncapping that vial tells me that you’ve grown stronger already.”

His hands cupped her face. “Don’t think I haven’t asked myself if you weren’t my new opiate. I want you at all hours. You are my last thought as I fall asleep and my first when I awake.”

The rubbing of his thumb sent shivers down her spine, but it pained her that he doubted his feelings for her. “Juggie, I am not bad for you. And please don’t say that you’re bad for me. That isn’t true.”

“I cannot stay away from you for long, and maybe this fear I have isn’t just for you. Perhaps it is for me, as well. If something should happen to you, I will be lost. Forever. Overdosed, drowned, or murdered for my habits.”

“Nothing will happen to me,” she whispered, tracing his jawline with her fingers. 

“You don’t know that.”

“So long as we have one another, we will keep each other safe. I am not safer with anyone else. We know each other better than anyone and I know you to be stronger than  _ that.”  _ She tilted her chin at the vial on the railing. “I can’t see the future, Jughead, but I have a more optimistic viewpoint. But first, from hereon, you will stop lying to me about anything.”

He looked stricken, but he did not pull away. “I never wanted to lie to you, but I was ashamed of my weakness, of what I was and how I acted. It is the one thing I’ve kept from you and now you know everything.” 

She nodded, crumpling the front of his shirt for emphasis. “You, telling me all this, means the world to me, Jughead, but we will take this a day at a time. No more secrets. You must promise me.”

“I promise. No more secrets, Betty.”

Some doubt lingered, but she stamped it away. She loved him and he told her without her prompting of his burdens and flaws. She understood why he kept it from her, especially remembering how it had caused him so much anger and pain when his father fell in the grip of intoxication. 

She didn’t think less of him, because he hadn’t been forced to admit his past. He told her out of his own volition, because he did not want to keep lying to her, and in some ways, she was grateful for that bravery. “If you ever feel a craving for these opiates, you must tell me, immediately, and I will help you where I can. We are Daemon Bound, and it is a bond that transcends all. No matter what happens to  _ us,  _ it is that which will keep us together. You know this, don’t you?”

He sighed, but he nodded. 

“I am not your addiction,” she continued. “But I can be your medicine. Your treatment.”

To her surprise, he shook his head. “No. You are not medicine. Not treatment. You are Betty, someone who somehow believed in me, and thought better of me. I am stronger because of you--because of  _ that.” _

It tugged at her heart, to realize that he thought her belief and good opinion of him was in the past tense. 

“Juggie,” she whispered in tender reproach. “I don’t think less of you, at all. You are still my strong, reliable, Jughead Jones. You have overcome difficult odds to reach this point in your life. Don’t think for a second that it doesn’t make me think better of you.” She tugged him down by the collar of his shirt so that she may press a kiss to his lips. 

He kissed her back like a drowning man breathing air. She could feel his relief in the way his lips moved against hers, and the way he held her, tight against his chest, felt like the sealing of his promise. 

When they finally parted, she smiled up at him and as he turned towards the railing, he grabbed the vial and threw it overhead, arching far down the empty streets. The vial caught the lights briefly before it disappeared from sight and the tinkle of shattering glass broke ever so faintly in the wind. 

***************

They fell asleep on the sofa, the light of her fireplace bouncing off the skin of his arms, wrapped around her from behind. 

They were fully clothed, Betty thought rather cheekily, and they only talked--of the things he did during those months of addiction.

They were exhausted from the long day, so their talk was brief before they both started to drift off, comfortable and warm. 

Betty thought that were they not so tired, they might have made better use of that couch, but their bodies were more interested in rest and as far as sleeping went, this was a rather nice situation, to be sure.

****************

When Jughead awoke, sunlight was already peeking through the drapes and the wood from the fireplace had been reduced to embers. It took a moment for him to remember that he had, in fact, dozed off in Betty’s bedroom. 

Though his jacket, arm brace, and boots had come off, the rest of his clothing had remained.

In his arms, Betty stayed asleep, her loosened lovely hair free for him to run his fingers through. It was small relief from the raging desire that had befallen him after his confessions. 

He never knew that baring himself to her would open this particular floodgate, how her forgiveness and her belief in him made him want her with near breathless need. It hadn’t occurred to him that his secrets were holding back an enormous part of his emotions. He hadn’t considered that his secrets nurtured his deep seated fears of abandonment. 

The emotions that filled him when he surrendered that vial to the night, to New Kin, gave him a renewed sense of freedom and strength, and it made him truly understand what that bond with her was. 

She was right. Their bond transcended everything, and no matter what happened, that bond would hold, through separation, through anger, through pain, through pleasure.

And of course that last thought permeated through his veins. And it was, quite honestly, like being high, but without the impairment. Without the indignity. Without the ruination. 

When she said “Sit with me by the fire, won’t you?”, his mind went to places that made Elemiah’s unassuming asides seem like sharp blades of sarcasm. 

He assumed nothing, himself. That was to be expected from a gentleman, even when she undid the ties of her hair, even as she loosened her corset, he had to look away, thinking unsavory thoughts to counter the pleasurable ones that were flashing across his mind.

When she pulled his arms around her, nestling into the couch as she prompted him to tell her about the life he had when they were apart, all he could do not to drown in the fragrance of her hair and skin, the softness of her body, was to talk. 

He talked, mostly for his sanity, and when she dozed off, his own lethargy saved him from the sweet torture. 

But the morning brought his desires back with a renewed vengeance.

At this very moment, his eyes were firmly affixed to the soft swell peeking tantalizingly from the collar of her blouse. His memory of their time at the Lodge balcony, his lips trailing just south of her throat, begging to move lower so that he could feel that shape of her against his mouth, drove him mad. 

Unable to resist, he pressed a kiss to the soft dip behind her ear, where her neck and jaw met. 

Her soft sigh rippled over his body, and when she stirred, it was to reach behind her, her fingers combing through his hair. 

It was almost more than he could bear. His mouth opened to taste that patch of skin, and his hand moved to feel the shape of her stomach and waist, free of the corset that bound it. It was astounding, what he could feel even through fabric when it was free of its trappings. 

He could feel her breathing under his palm, and there were slopes and valleys, where leather and whalebone used to cage it. Her true shape made him ache, and when she craned her neck so that she could press kisses to his neck, he might have lost sense of all propriety. 

His mouth captured hers, his fingers flexing over the back of her thighs so that he could lock one over his hips. The feel of her curves against the hard planes of his body, pressing her down on the couch, was nearly an overload to his senses. 

Her hands scrambled over his blouse, and without delay, he pulled it over his head and off his body before he resumed kissing her again. 

A small voice in his head warned caution. 

_ Go gently. Read her pace. Find out where she believes this is headed.  _

“Juggie,” she gasped, her hands diving for the hooks and buttons of his trousers while she flashed him a sultry smile.

_ That leaves very little doubt.  _

He groaned her name, his thoughts going in several different directions, spanning the constellation of  _ She’d never done this with a man  _ and  _ I want her with all of my being  _ to  _ But her reputation! _

There was a soft rapping in the background of his haze, and at first Jughead ignored it. His trousers were loosening, and her fingers were fluttering lightly over the patch of skin that was making him dizzy with stimulation, but the rapping persisted, distant though it was, and something nagged in the back of his mind that had absolutely nothing to do with the tender ministrations of Betty’s lips on his bare shoulder. 

He stilled her wandering hands and shushed her with his lips pressed to her ear. 

“Jones, wake up! Do you have any idea what time it is?” The voice was distant--directed two doors down, but it was unmistakable. 

Betty gasped against his ear. “Was that just Mr. Mason?”

Moose? Why would he--?

The clock on Betty’s mantlepiece gave a soft ding, and Jughead looked over his shoulder and saw that it was ten o’ clock.

“Oh, hang me!” he cried, just as he rolled gracelessly off the couch. 

The carpeting did nothing to soften his fall, and his elbow hit the coffee table with reverberating force.

“Juggie!”

_ “Balls…”  _ he hissed, cradling his arm.

All thoughts of Betty, her body, and his, disintegrated at the pain, and also at the realization that he had to present his report on last night’s raid to the panel of Guardians and Prime Guildsman Lodge. He had all but thirty minutes to get ready, rush to Guildsman Hall, and gather his papers before heading to the Prime Guildsman’s office. 

He got back to his feet in the clumsiest fashion, with Betty’s help, as the insistent knocking on his door continued.

He put his shirt back on in one swift motion and righted it as he rushed to the door. Sure enough, Moose was standing two doors down, knocking furiously to wake him. 

“Moose! I’m here! I’m awake!” 

The look on Moose’s face when he realized where Jughead actually was, was one of pure disbelief. “You have got to be joking.”

“I’m sorry, I lost track of time--”

“I’ll say! Get dressed, you idiot. You haven’t much time and Prime Guildsman Lodge will not wait for you!”

He didn’t quite know how indelicate it would be to rush off on Betty just after that exquisite encounter they had. It seemed so brutish. So inappropriate. 

His eyes must have been imploring for her permission, because she went to him, pressed a kiss on his lips, and said, “You must go. At once!”

“I love you,” he whispered, gratefully. “Can I see you at lunch? If you can be at the steps of Guildsman Hall at half-past noon?”

“Yes. I shall see you then.” She grinned, pressing yet another kiss to his lips. “May I bring a friend?”

Did she even think he would ever say no to her about anything? “Of course, my love.”

And all the while, he was well aware how Moose must be hopelessly mortified by all this.

When finally, he left her room, Moose’s lopsided glare was certainly enough to chastise him. 

“I owe you,” was all Jughead could say as he rushed to his room. 

“Oh, I have taken note, I promise you.”

“And please don’t tell any--”

“Of course, I won’t tell anyone how much of a flapdoodle--”

“Moose.”

He laughed. “I don’t spend my days gossiping about you, Jones. Just so you know. I’ll wait for you downstairs. And be quick about it. No  _ side trips.” _

Jughead could only give him a bow of gratitude before hurrying back to his room. 

*****************

While Jughead was busy making a name for himself at Prime Guildsman Lodge’s office, Betty decided to make ample use of her time. 

However compelling it was to stay home all day and languish in the memories of how Jughead and  _ parts of him  _ felt against her, she found that the emotional midnight revelations, coupled with their invigorating morning endeavors, had left her energized and restless. 

There will be another time for their exploration of one another. In the meantime, she was going to take advantage of her access to Guildsman Hall on this day that she was not quite required to be in it. 

Having made her own way via train from the Jones house to Guildsman Hall, she had ample time to think about how she was going to go about this. 

As she walked through the halls of the Guild, she marveled at how she had made the unlikeliest friends in this incredibly imposing establishment. 

And now she was going to use them. 

Sometimes she wondered if there was something wrong with her.

She climbed the steps to the higher floors and made her way to the Reaper department. As she walked through the doors, she saw the rows of desks, each with their own datamancer, all of them occupied by designated Reapers. 

There were several departments just like this one throughout the floor, men and women whose sole purpose was to gather information about any harmful haunting that may register in their proverbial radars and summarize that information for Peace Dealers to consume and use. 

Their methods of research were astounding, their resources unfathomable. 

As Ethel Muggs tried to explain to her the night before, the main datamancer gathered all that information from their network of investigators, curators, and data processors.

As Betty scanned the floor, she saw Ethel at the far end of the room, and as if sensing her stare, Ethel looked up from her work.

Ethel smiled and waved back, setting her things aside and getting up from her desk. 

Betty felt a twinge of guilt, but she stamped it away, telling herself that this was the only way.

“Ms. Cooper!” Ethel said, cheerfully. “What a surprise! I thought you’d be resting today. I heard the recruits had quite a night, working all through midnight.”

Betty nodded. “We did, but I’ve had my rest and wanted to make the most of my day.”

“Here? At work?” Ethel did seem nonplussed by her logic.

Betty shrugged. “I wish to get ahead of the boys. To come out of these trials on top, and I thought I might take you up on your kind offer to help me attain that.”

Ethel shook her head, but she did laugh. “Ah, well, if you put it that way. How can I help you?”

“A bit of advanced orientation would be perfect. Guardian Weatherbee did show us a map of the facilities.” She brought out that folded piece of what could be classified as hieroglyphics. “But we were never brought on a guided walkthrough. I’ve explored most of these areas, but I’d love to see the Room of Realms. Just in the viewing area, of course.”

Betty knew Reapers had total access to the Room of Realms, so Ethel would have no problem ushering her through. As a recruit, she wasn’t yet authorized to go into what was labeled in the map as the “laboratory”, but she didn’t need to cross that level. She only needed to be in the “viewing” area, designated for everyone else employed by the Guild. 

Ethel made a sound. “Honestly, that place is dreary, and it’s just a gloomy room when it isn’t opening the gates. I don’t believe it will help you at all in these trials.”

“I’d like a better understanding of how the Guild uses the Room of Realms. It is the only one of its kind, yes? I believe that is worth a closer look.”

Ethel seemed skeptical. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to see the other areas? There is an entertainment facility designated in the higher floors of the building. It houses some of the Guild’s artifacts from its days of yore, including the dungeon showcase--an exhibit of their ghastliest implements--old torture devices, really, but tools our Guild founders called ‘Soul Purifiers.’ They’ve been outlawed, rightly, but still--what fictions men wrought for power!”

In truth, Betty found all that incredibly interesting, but the Room of Realms was her focus at this time, and she needed Ethel--an impartial third party who was low enough in the ranks to fly beneath the radar of anyone who might care about Betty snooping around in the Guild.

She also noted from her conversations with Ethel the previous night that Ethel might have a bit of a crush on Jughead. 

Jughead would have to forgive her later, which Betty could probably manage with a kiss or two. 

“All that sounds marvelous, but the Room of Realms fascinates me. It would be wonderful if we can see that first.” She looked quickly at her pocket watch. “Then we can go straight to lunch with Mr. Jones.”

Ethel’s eyes widened in surprise, jaw dropping. “Mr. J-Jones? Mr. Jughead Jones?”

The way she said it, it almost seemed like it was forbidden. “Is that not allowed?”

The reddening of Ethel’s face did nothing to quell Betty’s certainty that this ploy was going to work. “N-Nothing like that! It’s just--did he--does he--?”

“Does he, what? He suggested it this morning, before he left for work.” Betty mugged a look that she was convinced conveyed Jughead’s demeanor and she began to speak in what could be construed as a baritone. “‘Oh, did you wish to meet with Ms. Muggs? Why don’t you invite her to lunch with us? She works so hard. I’m sure she would appreciate the break.’”

“He said that?”

Betty waved a hand and rolled her eyes. “After a fashion. The details are unimportant. Come now, it won’t take long, I’d wager, and we can make it to lunch with Jughead, neatly.”

Ethel took a deep breath, as if making a difficult decision. “Very well, but we mustn’t stay long. Human Resources will have my head. I am not certified to walk anyone through our facilities, and no doubt they would find my narrations atrocious.”

“I’m sure your narration would be just as riveting as theirs.”

Ethel laughed, closing the door to her department behind her. 

******************

The Room of Realms was certainly dark and dreary, with no overhead lighting. The only thing that illuminated the cavernous space were the desk lamps from the workers and the green glow from the gigantic machine at the center of the room. 

Betty and Ethel could only see it through the viewing area, which was a balcony placed high above the Room of Realms floor, allowing a 360 degree view of the facility. 

The “room” was a round, amphitheatre-like structure, with rows of desks arranged among the “audience” area. At the pit was a gigantic structure called “The Gates”, made of pipes and rods, coils and bolts, sigils and crystals. Like a mechanical monstrosity rising out of the center, and all around it, there appeared to be several iron doors facing in eight different directions. Each door was connected to this central contraption by bronze-encased tunnels. If one viewed the thing from the top, it would look like an eight-pointed snowflake, with a glowing green center. 

As Betty took all of this in, Ethel explained how the gates were opened at approximately the same month each year, but the exact date required almost ten months' work of calculations. Every person in the facility was in charge of watching their variables, recording changes in weather, the stars, the planets, all fields of energy in between. 

Betty could see the calculations scribbled on multiple boards, interspersed with sigils. 

It looked like a highly mathematical endeavor, and Betty could only hope to understand its workings. She was more interested in who worked there, anyway. 

“Do you know any of these personnel?” Betty asked. 

“Oh, of course,” Ethel said. “The Reapers work closely with the Room of Realms, folks. They provide us certain data, mostly to do with dates of death and when the spirit failed to crossover--it’s critical information for that window of relevant information and helps us make holistic reports. That there is their boss, Soul Steward Minetta, and there are his managers…”

Ethel started mentioning other names, and Betty kept careful note of appearing very interested. When Ethel said a name, Betty would make sure to ask exactly who that was on the floor, what they did, specifically, and whether they were “nice” or “friendly.” 

When Ethel said, “Ms. Walker is their best augerer. She used to be an Inker, but her calling led her to the Room of Realms. Mr. Putnam takes her augering and transitions them into calculations.” 

Betty summoned all of her powers of acting to seem only mildly interested. “Oh? And who is that?”

Ethel nudged her to look towards the left. “That lady in the purple suit, glasses, and glossy curls.”

Betty immediately knew whom Ethel was speaking of, for the purple suit and glasses were distinct. “And she works with Mr. Putman, you say? Who is he?”

“That petite gentleman in the desk next to her. He’s very stiff. Proper-like, but Ms. Walker claims he’s a very sweet man. Don’t see it, but they work together so she would know.”

Betty took careful note of their appearance, which was what she came here for. 

She let Ethel explain more of the basic workings of the Room of Realms, and when Ethel finally said, “Well, that is all there is, really. It’s drier than it seems. People think it’s magic and chaos but it really isn’t. Just that there is nothing like it anywhere in the world, so I understand its mystique. It’s more useful than anything else, and many cities from around the globe send their collected souls to us.”

In spite of it all the supposed gloom and doom of the place and Ethel’s droll assessment of it, Betty really did find it all very fascinating--how this Room of Realms, this device, has made the matter of Peace Dealing expedient, for it did take a lot of effort to honor the wishes of the dead. 

Betty knew that in spite of her diligence in Riverdale, she was the only one there was, and no doubt, so many rogue souls went unchecked, causing all manner of trouble. 

As they concluded their visit, Betty did bring Ethel with her to meet with Jughead for lunch, and while Jughead did appear surprised for a heartbeat, one sharp look from Betty and Jughead quickly wiped the surprise from his face and replaced it with a pleasant smile, following it with a gallant, “I am so glad you could join us, Ms. Muggs. We weren’t sure this morning.”

Ethel blushed to her roots as she shyly explained how Betty had so kindly invited her. 

“Indeed, Betty is  _ so kind.” _

Betty did think him a tad too sarcastic stating that little aside. She arched her eyebrow at him as soon as Ethel’s back was turned. 

“I expect an explanation,” he grumbled in her ear. 

She smirked. “And you shall have it.”

**************

They had planned to follow Ms. Walker, first. She seemed softer on Mr. Kinkle, but as Betty sat with Jughead on the stone benches of the front yard, she saw that Mr. Putnam was accompanying Ms. Walker out. 

Giving them a wide berth, Betty soon followed after them, with Jughead walking by her side. 

They tried to seem inconspicuous, and when Ms. Walker and Mr. Putnam stopped for one thing or another, Betty quickly, with Jughead, bled into the crowds, hoping to go unnoticed. 

It wasn’t long before Ms. Walker and Mr. Putnam separated at a trolley stop. 

“Should we follow them separately?” Betty asked. 

Jughead shook his head. “We follow Ms. Walker together. If we need more information, we interview Mr. Putnam then.” 

Betty nodded, hurrying to keep pace and to get in line for the trolley. When the trolley came by and they boarded, they watched the back of Ms. Walker’s head as the trolley took them down fifth avenue. 

Ms. Walker hopped off at midtown and they followed her along 40th street, among a row of houses. Finally, she climbed the front steps of 425, and when she reached the top of the steps, she turned to face the street again and called out, “You need not sneak around. I saw you both at the trolley and I recognized Ms. Cooper. She’s very popular at the Guild.”

So rarely has Betty failed at following a mark that she felt extremely disappointed by herself. She was never so recognizable, and she didn’t even think it would ever present as a disadvantage. 

“You’re no slouch yourself, Mr. Jones. Everybody knows who you are, especially the ones who don’t like you.”

The voice came from behind them, where Mr. Putnam stood and scowled, so little yet radiating so much displeasure that Betty had to square her shoulders to remind herself that she was not to be intimidated. 

“A man is measured by the caliber of his enemies,” Betty quipped. 

At that, Mr. Putnam chuckled. “I am not your enemy, but I assure you, I would have made a formidable one.” He started to walk around them, emerging from their hiding place. “Come. We must not keep Ms. Walker waiting.”

Exchanging exasperated glances with Jughead, they followed Mr. Putnam and made their way to Ms. Walker’s front steps. 

They were ushered into Ms. Walker’s apartment, a nicely appointed two story home with a small dining area and living room, a small kitchen in the back and what appeared to be a small study. The second floor had a compact loft, and a door, which likely led to the bedroom. But most distinctly, the walls were fitted with shelves, and they were filled mostly with books. Some sections held an artifact or some interesting decor. 

Ms. Walker invited them to sit in the cozy living room, and Betty had to quell the tapping of her foot when Jughead threw her a look that said many things, some of them less about this case. Even now, he seemed to emanate affection, and she had to remind herself never to abuse it, for his hours-long anger with her was enough to drive that lesson home. 

Mr. Putnam, a delicately featured man, watched them with sharp observation, though he seemed to tilt a smile when he saw Jughead watching no one but her. 

She could feel heat rise up her neck. How were they to hide this relationship at work?

Ms. Walker returned, looking more comfortable with her coat shed and a shawl draped over her shoulders. “Well, now. I could only assume that we are here to discuss your brother, Ms. Cooper.”

Betty was surprised by how widespread that knowledge was--that she was the sister of the disgraced Charles Cooper. She looked at Jughead, hoping he would speak for them this time. 

“That is part of it, yes,” Jughead said. “But we wanted to learn more about Mr. Kinkle, and about the theft in the Room of Realms.”

Mr. Putnam sighed but said nothing. It was Ms. Walker who nodded. “Hmm, yes. He was accused of stealing some Daemons in storage.”

“You knew him, I’d gather. Is he capable of such a thing?” Jughead asked. 

“Mr. Kinkle is a good man. He is capable of doing the right thing, even if it means breaking the law.”

Betty took careful note of Ms. Walker’s wording. “The right thing? What do you mean by that?”

“It means,” came a man’s voice from within the study. “That I only did what I did to protect the truth.”

He had kind eyes, and brown hair. He seemed like the quiet sort, given the softness of his tone. He was older than them all, probably around the same age as Charles if Charles were alive today. He sounded tired, but there was a determination there, too. He joined their circle, placing a hand on Ms. Walker’s shoulder. 

Ms. Walker cupped her hand over his, looking up at him with a measure of worry. “This is Mr. Harvey Kinkle. He’s been living here under the protection of Guildswoman Burble--at least until she finds out that he wasn’t quite as obedient as she thought he would be.”

Betty could only exchange incredulous looks with Jughead. This was wholly unexpected. 

Mr. Kinkle sighed. “I knew that one day you or your mother would come looking--Sabrina said you would. And when you did, she told me I had to tell you what I knew.”

“Sabrina?” Betty interjected. “The  _ Inker  _ Sabrina?”

Mr. Kinkle nodded. “Yes, that Sabrina.”

Betty struggled to put the pieces together. “How did this--how are you and Sabrina related?”

He gave Ms. Walker a somewhat apologetic look before replying. “We had a history, before she was Forsaken, and it was perhaps the reason Guildswoman Burble came to me to do her bidding. The Guildswoman believed I would plunder the Daemons in storage for Sabrina’s sake, stealing back Mr. Cooper’s Daemon along with it. The Guildswoman wasn’t wrong. I would do it to save Sabrina’s Daemon, but I did it because Sabrina said Mr. Cooper’s Daemon was infinitely more important. I don’t know the Guildswoman. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to take those Daemons away from the Room of Realms, but I know Sabrina, and when she told me that Mr. Cooper’s--your brother’s Daemon could hold the key to the truth, I believed her. I don’t know what that truth is, and I don’t know  _ how  _ a Daemon could have it, but Sabrina seemed certain you can glean something from it, so we needed to protect that Daemon from being sent through the gates.” 

Betty processed this information quickly. Sabrina was the one other person who knew they were Daemon Bound, so she must know of the alpha sigil--the one that would enable them to speak to Charles’s Daemon. 

Mr. Putnam sighed and shook his head. “Sabrina did have a tendency to get all of us in trouble.”

Ms. Walker laughed. “Shush, you. I have never seen you disinvite it.”

All three of them, Ms. Walker, Mr. Kinkle, and Mr. Putnam, looked at one another and grinned. Thick--as they say--as thieves. 

“I took up the Guildswoman’s offer to steal the cache of Daemons,” Mr. Kinkle continued. “It had to be all of them to seem like it was a Wraith Lord plot, and the Guildswoman promised me a sum of money for my silence, and she promised that the investigation would stop with her. In exchange, I would have to surrender Mr. Cooper’s Daemon to her care. She said she would keep the vessel in her possession. She was not forthcoming about why.”

Betty found that she was clutching Jughead’s hand. 

“And did you?” Jughead asked without prompting. “Give her Charles’s Daemon?”

Mr. Kinkle chuckled. “I told you--I don’t know the Guildswoman. She tells me nothing, so I don’t trust her. I did not give her Mr. Cooper’s Daemon, but she thinks she has it. How is she to know, anyway? Sabrina helped. She forged the sigils on the vessel, so the decoy was convincing.”

“Do you have any inkling as to why Guildswoman Burble would make you do such a thing?” Jughead asked. “I know you said she’s told you nothing, but--”

Mr. Kinkle shrugged and shook his head. “I can only guess, Mr. Jones. Bits and pieces. She seemed to have stumbled on to something--something big, and she kept saying that she only wanted to know the truth. What use she could possibly have for Mr. Cooper’s Daemon, I know not.”

Jughead exchanged looks with her. Betty knew why the Guildswoman needed it. She thought she could extract information from Betty with it, and Betty almost did give some information up.

“Where is Sabrina now?” Jughead asked. “Does she know anything about Charles’s secrets?”

“Sabrina is in the wind,” Ms. Walker said in a clipped tone. “We never know when she will make an appearance. It has been her way since she was last Forsaken. She was able to alter the detection sigil they put on her--the one that monitors whom she speaks to and where she is, but she says it isn’t fool-proof, so she limits any contact with us as much as necessary. We never know where she is when she isn’t with us.” 

“I don’t know if she knows more than us regarding Mr. Cooper’s secrets, Mr. Jones,” Mr. Kinkle said, gently. “But she did say that the reason Charles was Forsaken was not for the reasons put on paper by the Imperium.” 

Jughead looked disappointed by this answer, but Betty saw it as hope--that what Gladys thought she knew for sure was actually a lie, that there was something else Charles had been banished for, and that something was enough for Charles to be silenced forever.

If they could not summon Sabrina, there was really only one other recourse. 

“Do you have my brother’s Daemon?” Betty demanded. 

Mr. Kinkle’s eyes softened even more, apologetic. “I do not. I sent it to your home in Riverdale. You should have had it by now.”

Betty could not believe it. 

“Alice,” Jughead said. “Charles’s Daemon is with Alice.”

  
  



	15. The Other Side of Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added another tag and I want you to know that there are triggers in this chapter. I tried to keep it light, but just to be safe, I want you all to be aware that sexual assault is heavily implied.

It was quickly determined that they were destined to return to Riverdale, if briefly. 

Alice was clearly keeping Charles’s Daemon a secret, and knowing her mother, Betty guessed it was for similar reasons as Gladys. 

“She doesn’t wish to stir the pot,” Betty said, simmering in her annoyance. “She knows that if either one of us knew she had it, it would bring up questions about Charles that she probably prefers we don’t investigate.”

It infuriated Betty that she had to run all the way to Riverdale just to force the truth from her own mother. All this could have been avoided if Alice were to simply divest herself of her fears and and let them inherit Charles’s Daemon.

Jughead was certain that it would only go to either one of them--not to Jellybean, FP, or Alice. 

“I’m convinced that Charles would want us to find the truth about him,” Jughead said. “He couldn’t tell us anything before—not in person nor in writing. If he did, we would have gotten ex-communicated ourselves. This is how he has chosen to tell us the truth.”

Betty found that Jughead’s belief in Charles was inspiring. He simply had no doubts about Charles, whereas Gladys had managed to erode her faith in her brother. Perhaps this was one of the benefits of the bond--this balance that their dual personalities brought. 

But their trip to Riverdale would have to wait until after trials. There was only one trial left to go, and it appeared to be the one that--appropriately, struck fear in everybody. 

The next and final trial was the Infernal Sphere, or as it was fantastically called, the Fear Sphere.

It might inspire fear in her, as well, if she did not have other more immediate concerns. She wished only to complete it, and then they could get on the business of confronting her mother in Riverdale. 

“We had about six recruits drop off through the course of partner trials,” Jughead said, lounging in a chair, his legs propped atop a footrest. He had a book on his lap as was appropriate, since they were in the Jones family library. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the postings.”

Betty had been remiss. She was never fussed about the results. 

She was currently focused on the shelves, finding a book for herself to read. She might settle for a gothic horror, as she found them entertaining. “If you hadn’t been my senior, would I have gotten kicked out for my performance in that last case?”

Jughead laughed quietly, and without getting out of his chair, reached out to tug at her wrist. She let him pull her to his lap and she grinned as she felt his fingers making idle circles over the skin of her arm. “Are you suggesting that you only passed that last trial because of me?”

She bit her lip as she gave a soft hum. “No. Maybe. I disobeyed orders.”

He nodded with exaggerated gravity. “You did.”

“Am I not to be penalized for that?”

He scoffed, softly, but the playful look in his eyes did wane. “You think yourself the first and only recruit to gainsay their senior on partner trials? Every season, one or two recruits step out of the box, and they are almost always the best in the group. This season it was you and Moore.”

Her jaw dropped. “Moore! You’re lying!”

“I promised you I wouldn’t lie to you again.” He played lightly with the ruffles along the seams of her blouse. “Nobody at the Guild ever advanced by being too obedient. At this stage in the trial, the ones who get dropped are the ones who make no impression whatsoever.”

He was serious, and the truth was, he didn’t appear too amused by it, at all. “You wish it were different?”

He shrugged. “I cannot complain. I stepped out of line as well during my partner trials. My senior hardly blinked. He just told me never to do it again. I wish he’d been harsher. I might have been a better partner for it.”

She wished he would forgive himself for Trevor’s death. “Well, you pitched into me and I learned my lesson.” 

“Did you, really?”

She shot him a withering look and he laughed, but his laughter faded and he was serious once more.

“I used to think,” he began, “that the Guild did these trials specifically because they wanted to make sure Peace Dealers would make a good impression out on the field, but I realized after being here a few years that the Guild doesn’t just wish us to make a good impression, they want us to seem ethereal and unattainable, devastating and unlike any other. They want _ us _to maintain the power of the Guild by keeping Peace Dealers on a pedestal. It’s incredibly self-aggrandizing. I often wonder at its wisdom. Yes, it allows us to do what we have to do with great skill and efficiency, but it can absolve us of fault, and that is dangerous.”

He had no doubt done far more self-examination than perhaps most of the Peace Dealers in the Guild, likely because of Trevor’s death.

“Perhaps it is as you say,” Betty said, smoothing back a non-existent rumple from his collar. “So, we must be noticeable and defiant from within. They are already looking to you for leadership. Perhaps you are the change they need.”

He scoffed. “Qualifications: Former gang member, nominated Serpent King, and presently an addict.”

It was her turn to scoff. “At the risk of sounding flippant—this is the age of Victoria. We love a good, tortured hero with a complicated character.”

He grinned. “Like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.”

Betty made a sound of disgust, disagreeing completely. “He was vengeful, irredeemable, and died a bitter, sad, old man--turned rogue spirit, to add insult to injury. I was thinking more along the lines of Mr. Darcy.”

He gave a loud groan, with a pronounced rolling of the eyes. “Must you?”

“You are a perfect Mr. Darcy. So cantankerous and often difficult to like.”

His jaw dropped. “Difficult.”

She smirked. “You never make it easy, my heart. If you can’t say what you mean, you say nothing at all and your general thoughts of people often border on the unkind. Surely you know this.”

He gave a grunt. “I sound horrible.”

“Mmm, you can be when you apply yourself, but you are always nice to _ me. _ Well, except for that _ one time--” _

“For flinging your body from the railing of a ship and nearly plunging to your death.”

“Well, I admit that the circumstances were extreme.”

He nodded with great emphasis, eyes comically wide, and Betty could not help but laugh, gripping him by the collar of his shirt and pressing kisses upon his lips with unbridled affection. 

The playful kisses took on a more heated cadence when his hands splayed upon her midriff and she felt the pad of his thumb rubbing circles between the whalebone ridges of her corset. 

The light touching of their tongues spread heat throughout her body and she felt giddy at the notion that he wanted her this way. She still wished they could carry on the way they did that morning he had stayed in her room. She remembered being delighted by what she saw when he shed his shirt. 

His trim body was not heavily muscled--she never expected such a build. He always cut a slim figure, but he was fit, and the lines along his body grew distinct when he moved, firm beneath his soft skin and responsive to her touch. His flat stomach had a line of hair from his belly button down to his trousers, leading to places she wanted so desperately to explore. 

His fingers strummed the front of her corset, where the hooks and loops connected, moving slowly up along the edge, where skin and corset met.

It was easy to get lost in this, to be swept in this tide, but as was common in this house, the sounds of their housemates filtered up the stairwell, just outside the library entryway, and Jughead made a sound of complaint. Betty giggled into the kiss, and when they separated, she saw that the blues of his eyes were very nearly eclipsed by black. 

“This house,” he gasped. “Has too many people.”

She bit her lip, knowing all too well his frustration, for that ache in her center still felt knotted tight. “Kevin claims he always knows where everyone is.”

“I believe him.”

“There will be less people at Elm.” The moment she said it, a flash of heat rose up her collar. She could scarcely believe she said what she said. Her mother’s voice reminded her that it was unbecoming of a lady to speak so plainly of desire. 

But Jughead showed no surprise nor disdain. He cupped her face and ran his thumb lightly over her bottom lip. “I am well aware,” he whispered. 

His words did nothing to quell her desire. 

“You will get through your trial,” he continued. “And then we go to Riverdale. Are you ready to confront your fears, Elizabeth?”

Her mind and body could not process the barrage of emotions that his one sentence beset upon her. Was he talking about the Fear Sphere? Or did he mean the truths that Charles’s Daemon held? Why did he call her Elizabeth _ like that _and how is it that it shot desire down her belly?

She wasn’t sure if she was ready for _ any _of it--the sphere, the truth, the all-consuming desire for him--but as a wise woman once said, the only thing standing between her and everything she wanted was fear. 

And she wasn’t afraid of anything.

Or was she?

*************************

The sphere sat in the middle of the gymnasium, an enormous bronze monstrosity, 50 feet in diameter, with wheels and cogs, dark glowing crystals and tubes piping steam. It had no windows and no visible doors. It looked impenetrable and ominous.

As the recruits lined up along one side of the gymnasium, no one spoke, and Betty could see the nervous ticks permeating the otherwise hardened band of misfits. 

Betty herself had a tick of her own, her fists balling tight with tension. 

Nobody watched from the stands, this time. Only Guildswoman Burble, Prime Guildsman Lodge, Guardian Weatherbee, and Ms. Klump attended, sitting behind tables piled with folios and each panel member with a datamancer each. 

There were two other attendants on the other side of the sphere. Nondescript Peace Dealers who seemed calm and expressionless. 

There were no locks on the gymnasium doors. Nothing to prevent an audience, but no one came. It was, perhaps, too much for Peace Dealers to relive this day of the trial. 

Even Jughead, when asked whether he would watch the proceedings, shook his head. “You don’t need me in the stands. You’ll need me when you get out.”

It was, in many ways, unnerving. 

She hated that these thoughts were creeping beneath her skin. She was never this uncertain about _ doing. _

She grew momentarily resentful of the Kin, whom in their infinite advanced technology, chose to bring forward humanity’s most primal impulses--violence, competition, fear, because it did, in fact, measure the mettle of men and women more accurately than complacency and comfort ever did. 

They drew lots again, and Betty found that she would go fifth among the remaining 12. 

Munroe drew first, and he seemed determined to get it done. 

When Guardian Weatherbee asked them if they had any questions, hands rose in the air, including Betty’s. 

Guardian Weatherbee chose her first. 

“Why must we do this?” she asked.

The silence that followed her question made her fidget where she stood. Had no one ever ventured to ask this question before?

But after that painful pause, Guardian Weatherbee nodded. “The Guild expects you to keep your wits about you on your worst day. In the worst circumstances. The Infernal Sphere will formulate that day for you. Nobody but you will see your fears, but the panel will see how you overcome them.”

_ It will feel real, _ Jughead had told her. _ Even as you tell yourself over and over that it isn’t, that second before the fear truly grips you will convince you otherwise. Fighting the fear is futile. You will not win. Embrace it. Embrace the fear and find that quiet place within--have that quiet place, and you will know what to do in spite of your fear. _

_ What if I fear nothing? _

Jughead had sighed. _ There is always something. _

Nick St. Claire was called for his question. “How long will this take?”

“As long as necessary,” was Guardian Weatherbee’s ominous response. 

When the questions were done, they were called, one by one, to step forward. 

Munroe went first, and he was brought to one side of the sphere, where a sigil was carved into the bronze. He was told to cut his hand with his athame and place it upon the sigil, speaking the invocation etched on the door:

_ Aldon ol hoxmarch. _

Summon my fear.

A crack formed, a bright white light breaking the sphere open, and Munroe walked through, and then it was a sphere again, whole and silent. 

There was absolutely nothing for nearly half an hour, only the Guildswoman, Prime Guildsman, and Guardian staring quietly at their datamancers. 

But the sphere glowed again, this time from the other end, and Monroe stumbled out, falling on his hands and knees. As the Peace Dealers approached to help him, he raised his hand to stop them, and after minutes of catching his breath, he rose to his feet, still trembling, but walking out of the gymnasium on his own.

One after another, they went into the sphere and came out different men. Archie and Reggie came before her, as well, and just like Munroe, they emerged pale, breathless, quivering, but they walked out on their own two feet, climbing out of their nightmares on their own. 

She had spent the last hour and a half searching inside herself desperately, hoping she could prepare herself for what’s to come. She had shuffled back in her memories, when she first looked down a mountain cliff, when Charles first taught her how to swim, or perhaps when she first saw those ghastly Wraith Lords. She might have felt some trepidation, but she had overcome those fears already. She had stepped off that cliff, swam the dark waters, fought Wraith Lords and survived. 

When her turn came, she was no more prepared than when she first stepped through the gymnasium doors. 

She took the athame from her belt and placed the sharp edge of it against her palm. She pulled the blade swiftly, feeling its icy sting as it spread through her palm and her hand. As the blood pooled into her palm, she pressed it to the sigil and spoke the invocation. 

The fissure appeared, bright and blinding. 

Taking a deep breath, she walked through. 

***************

It felt real because it was as she remembered Elm and its library, with bookshelves stood in rows, where one can remove a book from a shelf and see into the other side. 

The sun streamed through its windows, the quiet of the room marred only by the sound of a golden haired little girl, humming a made up tune. 

When the fresh-faced girl looked up, Betty was astonished to see herself as a nine year old, eyeing her with penetrating intensity. 

“What’s your name?” young Betty asked. And when she didn’t answer, she asked again, “Do you have a name?”

And against her bidding, she found herself saying, “Evelyn.”

She looked at herself, saw the mottled skin of her arms, the decaying flesh from her bones. 

“Did you used to live here, Evelyn?”

“No. Never. Here, I died.”

And at that moment, Betty knew. She _ knew _where this was going, and she was swept in the memory of a nightmare, 

Blood flowed from a wound on her head as she awoke from a deep sleep, her vision blurred by the pain in her skull. 

She could barely move. 

The smell of dampness lay thick and heavy, the roughened rock hard against her back. Her knees and ankles were wedged against the tiny space, pinching and bruising. 

Her hands came up in front of her and found that the wall was unyielding on both sides. 

Panic began to overcome her senses as she scrambled against the walls. She could feel the outline of brick after brick after brick. There was mud, hardened and sealed. And when she pushed, absolutely nothing moved. 

Her breathing had gone ragged, scratching at the walls, and now she was pounding against it, screaming for help, screaming until she was hoarse. 

She was twelve year old Evelyn, bricked up in the wall of Lord Evernever’s wine cellar. She scratched so hard her nails broke off, her fingers bleeding as it scraped against the rough stone. 

_ Find your quiet place. _

That voice came unbidden in her head, penetrating through the panic and loss of breath. 

Her screaming waned, giving space to thoughts and feelings.

_ This is a nightmare. _

It wasn’t, but she closed her eyes, breathing between her lips. 

_ This is your nightmare. _

And she remembered all those years ago when Evelyn told her where her body was, how she was buried alive behind the brick and mortar. 

It was Betty’s nightmare for weeks. 

Her nightmare. 

She wasn’t Evelyn. She was Betty, and she was a Peace Dealer with a Daemon. 

Sabathiel appeared, propped on her shoulder, expanding her wings and taking Betty’s body into its spectral form. 

Her clawed hands passed through the stone, followed by her body, her hindlegs and her wings. Sabathiel stepped through the bricks, through the mud and dirt. 

As she emerged, Sabathiel’s wings spanned the cellar. 

Finally, Betty was able to breathe.

She was free.

And now the scenery changed. 

She watched like a spirit, Charles--so young, barely sixteen, deep in the woods, digging earth by lamplight. The shine of the moon barely penetrated through the cover of trees. 

Nearby a body was wrapped in blankets and rope, the silk slick with a crimson sheen. 

Charles worked alone, tirelessly, without pause, though she could hear his grunts of effort, the exhaustion in his chest. He sounded so much like a child, his voice barely broken. The mound of dirt rose and the hole deepened, widened, until Charles was done, and with one mighty exertion, he rolled the wrapped body and dropped it into the hole.

Charles made a sound, like a sob, and he cried over the edge of this grave. He looked at his hands and Betty could not tell if the blood on it were from his own blisters or from the body of their father. 

After Charles composed himself, he got back on his feet, grabbed his shovel, and moved the mounds of earth back into the hole to bury his secrets. 

Betty watched in the shivering cold, mouth agape, as the landscape changed to the next morning, at breakfast, where Alice, while tending to an infant, asked Charles, in front of their servants, if he saw his father to the docks that morning. 

Charles trembled over his eggs and toast, lips unmoving as he summoned the courage to say the words his mother told him to say. “Yes, mother. Father sends his love.”

Alice gave Charles an approving nod and said nothing more on the matter. Not ever. Until, perhaps news came weeks later of the ship getting lost at sea, of the loud wails and tears Alice shed, as Charles, his face gone ashen with guilt, ran up to his room and slammed it shut, refusing to emerge until days later, when Hal Cooper’s memorial was to be held. 

Betty finally closed her eyes, shook her head and wondered how, in this situation, was she supposed to embrace this fear, when it was a story instead of a phantom. 

The story did not stop. It continued, and she sat in the back of a chapel, listening to strangers speak Hal’s praises, of what a good man, father, and provider he was, how they turned to Charles and told him that he had a heavy burden on his shoulders, but that he would rise to the occasion, as only the son of Hal Cooper could. 

_ Find your quiet place. _

She closed her eyes again, letting the sounds fade behind her and she found herself back at the dressmakers, where Gladys retold the tale in her harsh, cruel voice. But as Betty recalled, she pictured Mr. Harvey Kinkle’s face, and how he said that all of these were lies, and so a folio manifested in her hands, and as she took each sheet, she ripped it into pieces and threw them in the fire. 

Jughead manifested beside her, and together, they threw the lies into the fire. 

“We will learn the truth,” Jughead said. “Together, Betty.”

She nodded, letting his words and the comfort of his presence wash over her. She believed him because he was Jughead. 

The scenery shifted again, and she was back in the Southside, back in Sweet’s Emporium. 

She wore the clothes of a boy, her hair tucked into her hat. She stood before Sweet Pea, his tall and imposing form bent over a a beautiful pink dress splayed upon the counter. He was examining the stitching, pinching the embroidered petals between his fingers. He crumpled the material in his hands and pressed it to his nose, inhaling deeply of its scent. 

“She smells like a princess,” Sweet Pea said, eliciting laughter among his colleagues, all of them in various states of ease in his shop. 

He kept on commenting on the perfumed fabric, his words growing more obscene by the second, speaking of its wearer’s body parts and narrating, in detail, what he would do to them, and how she would scream _ no _.

“But she would like it. Oh, what she really means is _ yes.” _

The laughter thundered in Betty’s ears. 

Her stomach tightened with anxiety. She remembered how each time she walked into Sweet Pea’s pawnshop, she felt utterly and completely vulnerable, how the simple slip of her hat could bring their wrath, or worse, their cruelty upon her. She closed her mind to the possibilities, the horrible things they could do to her. She might wish herself dead. 

And just as she thought these words, someone snatched the hat off her head and her hair fell down her shoulders. 

Before she could react, two men had grabbed her by the arms, tearing off her jacket. The narrowness of her shoulders was stark against the brutes that surrounded her, and as Sweet Pea approached, she tried to kick him between the legs, but he grabbed her ankle and told his men to put her on the counter. 

Her struggles were futile, and the dress they were laughing at earlier was discarded to the floor. 

She was the dress now. She was the fabric and frills. 

Sweet Pea grabbed fists of her hair and sniffed loudly at it, telling them all that the dress was no match for the real thing. 

Betty’s heart was drumming forcefully through her chest, even as she screamed in frustration, unable to move her arms and legs, unable to stop Sweet Pea who had brought out a switchblade and was, slowly, amidst the hoots and hollers of his men, cutting a gash through her blouse. 

Gritting her teeth, Betty closed her eyes. 

_ Find a quiet-- _

She let her anger take hold this time. She was furious that after all this time, after so many years learning how to protect herself, it always came down to _ this. _How it always boiled down to her gender. 

Try as she might to prove herself, there would always be those who saw her as nothing more than an object for their pleasure. 

Her fury took hold, and she summoned Sabathiel, taking on her Daemon’s spectral form to leave the clutches of abuse. 

Freed, she fought them--fought them all, and the violence she visited upon them frightened even herself as she mowed each and every Serpent down with a skill and ruthlessness she never realized she had until now. 

And when she brought a sledge hammer down upon Sweet Pea’s face, the crack in the sphere reappeared before it could land. 

The hammer was gone. The pawnshop was gone. She was no longer in Chic’s clothes. She was back to herself. Back in the sphere, and she was trembling. 

She was trembling so very hard, and as she stumbled out the other end, she fell on her hands and knees, and she knew that it wasn’t fear that was causing this, it was rage. 

She slammed her hand upon the floor and gave an angry yell as she did so. What sort of machine was this? What kind of sick contraption--

She felt hands and she shook them off with the rough swinging of her arms. 

_ “Don’t!” _she cried, breathing loudly through her lips. She glared at the attending Peace Dealers, directing her fury at them. 

She had to remind herself that they were just doing their assigned tasks, which was to assist recruits after their very harrowing experience within the Infernal Sphere, but that didn’t seem to make her less furious, in spite of the calm settling in her rattled bones.

She got to her feet and took a deep breath. “I’m quite capable of walking myself out, thank you.”

Her heels clopped loudly as she made her way to the exits, and when she pushed through the doors, she saw that all the other recruits were still there--Reggie, Munroe, Archie, and the one other who had finished, looking up as she emerged from the gymnasium. 

Their faces were filled with their own miseries, their own terrors and pains. Some sat on the benches lined along the walls, some stood and paced. 

Jughead stood waiting across the hall, an observer, ready if needed, and they all stood silent, perhaps waiting for her to speak. 

She did not wish to speak. She did not even know who she was angry at. Herself? The Guild? The entire institution that planted that fear in her heart? That no matter how capable she was--how fierce and how deadly, she would always be afraid of that possibility that she would be overpowered by a group of men, who would think of her as nothing but a thing to be used? Or perhaps she was most angry at what the Sphere had expected her to do to get out of that situation--to inflict extreme, unrelenting violence. 

“Betty,” Jughead said, slowly approaching her. 

“I do not wish to talk about it!” she rasped, her voice still trembling with anger. She began to walk away, to leave them all behind. It wasn’t their fault, but it was difficult to separate what happened with her in the Sphere with all of them--these boys who were nothing but kind, gentlemanly, and supportive.

“Betts,” Jughead repeated, following after her. “Do you need company?”

Betty swung around. “Is this what the Guild does? To push recruits to do their worst?” She threw up her hands explosively before collapsing on a nearby stoop, her head in her hands. She took deep, calming breaths. “Gods! What in the devil does any of that say about me?”

As she sat and came to terms with what she saw and what she did, she felt Jughead’s strong arm around her shoulders giving her a firm squeeze before he let his hand glide soothingly up and down her spine. 

His touch, she found, eased her shoulders, and her breathing started to slow. 

“Did any of those visions come from the Guild? From the sphere?”

He shook his head, compassion in his gaze. “No. They don’t even know what you saw. You heard the invocation. All of it came from within you.”

Betty scoffed, rubbing at her eyes, hoping, perhaps, to wipe those memories away. “I managed with the others, but that last one--”

“They save the most intense for last,” Jughead said. “They always do. Many men have emerged from that sphere, changed.”

“To what end?” Betty asked. 

“To show you where your fears truly lie, so that you may rise above it and conquer it.”

Betty rubbed circles over her brow. “What if I hadn’t--what if I hadn’t fought back? What if the fear conquered me while I was in that sphere? I would have gone through a trauma that never really happened to me, but in my mind it would be real.”

“The panel sees you inside of the sphere. They watch your vitals--know the rate your heart beats, know whether you are breathing enough oxygen into your body, know if your panic has overcome you. They will pull you out before you do significant damage to yourself. That is what those two Peace Dealers are there for. To retrieve you if your fear overcomes you.”

“I did not like what I saw.” She closed her eyes and took deep breaths. “I was relentless and violent and--”

“We all were.”

She looked up at him in mild surprise. 

Jughead nodded in the direction of the other recruits. “They all were. At the end of it all, we are human beings, where survival becomes paramount. That machine was designed to push you to the limit. It will do its worst to bring the worst out of you. Do not believe for one second that you are incapable of acting differently. You will do what is right, contrary to what the sphere shows you.”

She believed him. She had to. 

“I can take you home, if you like,” Jughead said. “Or take you somewhere else. Wherever you wish to be.”

It was easy enough to let him take care of her, take her home and away from this place. She looked at her fellow recruits, still shaking their heads, still grappling with their experiences, and while it was logical to assume that they would understand what she was going through, she felt they wouldn’t. None of them would. 

Perhaps she really did need to go home. Be alone. Sit in silent contemplation. 

She was about to tell Jughead that she wished to be by herself when around the bend, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, and much to Betty’s own surprise, the vision of Cheryl Blossom hurrying towards her gave her more comfort than she thought possible. 

_ “Mon bijou!” _Cheryl declared, her face lined with worry. “I am late to arrive, but at least Jones had the good sense to be here for you when I could not. I am here now, so all will be better soon.”

That Cheryl had the gall to push Jughead aside and put her arms around Betty managed to to amuse Betty enough to elicit half a smile. Certainly, the look of outrage on Jughead’s face was priceless.

“I have cleared my schedule for the day,” Cheryl said, holding Betty by her shoulders. “If you need my company, I am available to you.”

Betty came to the surprising realization that she appreciated Cheryl’s loud concern, and as much as she loved Jughead with all of her heart, this felt like a matter only women can understand. 

“I have never felt so glad of you being here, Cheryl,” she said, truthfully. “And yes, your company would be most appreciated.”

Cheryl flashed Jughead a triumphant grin. “I knew it!”

“But can you give me a moment with Jughead?”

“Of course.”

Betty took Jughead aside and Jughead’s sideward glance at Cheryl was one of open suspicion, and Betty could not help but laugh softly. “Afraid she’ll stab you in the back?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” he muttered. 

Betty pressed her hand on his arm. “Cheryl is who I need right now.”

His brow wrinkled. “Betty.”

She smiled to assuage his worry. “I know you are busy.”

“I can clear my schedule for you, as well.”

She squeezed his shoulder and spoke softly. “I need to come to terms with what happened in the sphere, and Cheryl will be able to help me in ways you cannot, as of yet.”

His brows and lips pinched and Betty wanted so badly to take his face in her hands to ease the hurt her words no doubt brought him, but that would be entirely inappropriate in full view of everyone else. Instead, she lowered her voice even more. “I love you and I will share this with you, too. There are parts that only you can know, for one, but for me to tell you about everything, I must turn to Cheryl for this one aspect that only--” she paused “--only women can begin to comprehend.”

His lips parted in mild surprise, but then his eyes softened, and while he couldn’t possibly know what she meant, she felt he understood. “Of course. I will listen when you are ready to tell me.”

Betty glanced at Cheryl, briefly. “I will be, I promise. I shall see you later.”

“You know where to find me when you’re ready to go home.”

When he left, she rejoined Cheryl. 

She could sense how the other recruits preferred to keep their distance from her fiery Guardian-to-be, but Cheryl’s concern for her was genuine. Betty felt it in her bones and it so easily knit her frayed nerves back together.

Cheryl had her moments. 

“Shall I take you to lunch?” Cheryl asked. “Say yes, for I can’t stand another moment in this place. We will feel better after we’ve had a spot of wine. Or bourbon.”

Betty had a better idea. “Have you ever tried cremasse?”

**********************

There were many moments in Betty’s life where she felt that she was alone, and her answer to that loneliness was always to look outward--do other things, have a purpose, have a reason. She thought that it was because she was that kind of person, one who sought a preoccupation because she found the silence deafening, because productivity was a good use of one’s time. 

Even when Charles was alive, there were things that she felt Charles wouldn’t understand, things that could only be shared with a confidante, like Jughead, but with Jughead gone all those years and her mother unapproachable about certain matters, Betty didn’t have that proverbial shoulder to cry on. 

It is only in New Kin that she realized that she didn’t always have to preoccupy herself. She didn’t always need to be _ doing _something productive to unpack her emotions. And while Jughead would have been willing to listen to her, there was always something sacred about having a womanly ear to listen, the womanly experience to relate with. 

She began to uncover it with Valerie, and bringing Cheryl with her to Valerie’s Patties made for a truly remarkable experience, with both women providing their own layer to what would have otherwise been a one-dimensioned analysis of her experience within the Infernal Sphere. 

The world, as she knew it, was bigger than she first thought, and she could have only known this leaving Riverdale. 

After a long lunch with Cheryl and Valerie, she joined Jughead in the carriage home, and as was his way, he didn’t ask about the sphere, only if she was better, and when she said she was, he was satisfied and left her to decide if she wished to share more. 

She would tell him, soon, but in the meantime, she and Jughead had a trip to Riverdale to undertake. 

“It should not take us long to go to Riverdale, do what we must, and come back. I wager we’ll be back in time for your induction,” Jughead said. 

Her eyebrow arched. “My induction? Do you know something I don’t?”

Jughead scoffed. “It will take them three days to process final results, but anyone with half a mind knows you must be accepted. The public nature of the trials ensure that, at least. Do not doubt it, Betty. They will send you an acceptance, either by mail or messenger. Should they dare to reject you, they’d have Cheryl to contend with, and you know her. She will burn down the world to get her way.”

Betty supposed it was never a question of whether she would or wouldn’t. Throughout the process, Jughead had never shown any doubt that the trials would hinder her career, and she supposed that ultimately, her acceptance into the Guild did not determine her ability to Peace Deal, and Jughead knew this, as well. 

Getting into the Guild was a means, as it turned out, to uncovering Charles’s secrets. And in the end, they would circle back to Riverdale, after all, for the truth. 

_ Is it? _ Sabathiel asked. _ The end? _

Betty decided it was best for her sanity not to answer that question. 

*************

Jughead left a message for Cheryl and Moose with his father, explaining that he needed to accompany Betty to Riverdale for a few days to settle matters of a personal nature. 

It was easy enough to give FP and Gladys this very same excuse--since Jughead thought it best to keep his father out of this investigation and Gladys seething at the notion that Betty could summon him to do her bidding at a moment’s notice.

Sure enough, Gladys remarked, “I understand that a woman traveling alone would have the gossip mongers at ol’ Riverdale tittering, but really, Betty. Don’t you wish to stand up to those busybodies and shock them by traveling like the independent woman that you are? That you need not have your ‘distant cousin’--as I’m told he’s perceived--escorting you?”

Betty’s reticent smile looked, she imagined, more like a grimace. “I really don’t care about their opinion either way, Mrs. Jones,” which of course said nothing about whether or not she wished to travel alone. 

But Jughead--intent on annoying Gladys, said, “It was my desire to go with her. I simply can’t bear the thought that she’d be alone on that train for hours on end. Besides, somebody has to make sure she comes back to New Kin. Elm is a lovely home--too lovely, in fact, and Alice will likely try to convince her to stay.”

Gladys’ eye twitched almost imperceptibly, but Betty noted it, even as Gladys tried to hide it by saying, “Yes, those country mansions are a dream, aren’t they? Perfect as personal retreats.”

“Elm will always feel like my home away from home,” he replied, punctuating it with a nod. 

Betty might have imagined the purpling of Gladys’ face, but she was too intent on preventing the giggle that threatened to bubble from her chest. 

With the proper notices arranged, they set off for Riverdale at dawn the following morning.

**************** 

The train ride back to Riverdale felt faster than the ride out of it. Perhaps because when leaving Riverdale, Betty was excited to get to their destination, whereas going back to it filled Betty with trepidation, therefore their trip would end sooner than Betty would like. 

It did not help that Betty hardly slept a wink the night before. 

As soon as Betty settled beside Jughead in their seats, she promptly dozed off.

She awoke hours later. 

Jughead was not in their compartment, but she was too befuddled from sleep to wonder where he was. The businessmen who shared the compartment with them looked up at her rousing but immediately went back to minding their own business.

She checked her pocket watch and found that they were but an hour and a half away from Riverdale. 

She took a trip to the lavatory to freshen herself, and when she returned to their compartment, one of the strangers looked up and said, “Your husband came looking for you and he said to tell you that he is in the dinner car.”

Betty was about to tell him that Jughead was _ not _her spouse, but she realized that it would be too much trouble to explain their situation, and that with the Locked, it could be harrowingly uncomfortable in that compartment for the remainder of the trip if it were to be know that she was travelling with a man who wasn’t her husband, brother, or father. 

She thanked him, instead, and made her way to the dinner car. 

She found Jughead among one of the many single tables, reading the daily paper and nursing a cup of tea. When he saw her, he smiled and rose from his seat, sliding a chair for her and helping her settle. 

“You nodded right off and I thought I’d let you sleep,” he explained, setting the paper aside and waving to the waiter as he settled back into his chair. The waiter, however, did not approach and Jughead did not seem fussed by it. 

“Yes, thank you. I didn’t sleep a wink last night and it appears my body was not having it.”

He cast her a sympathetic smile. “We will find the truth out about Charles, one way or another. Won’t be long now. Or is it your mother that is keeping you awake?”

She supposed it was both. Yes, Charles’s truth preoccupied her, but the prospect of returning to Riverdale, however short her time away from it has been, felt disproportionately daunting. 

Having lived all her life the way Alice fashioned it: trying to fit the mould of the dutiful Locked daughter while pretending there weren’t an extraordinary world beyond Riverdale’s borders--it was a golden cage, and finding New Kin was a liberation. 

In New Kin she was allowed to live her true self, loud and proud. What would it be like to walk back into that cage?

She seemed quite capable of remembering at a moment’s notice how the Locked perceived certain things that the Kin hardly gave a second thought to, judging by the brief exchange in the train compartment, but that was but a moment in time. Would it then feel overwhelmingly stifling back in Elm?

“Perhaps. She will likely enrage me before we even confront her about Charles’s Daemon.”

A plate filled with the prettiest petit fours she had ever seen, along with a fresh cup of tea arrived at their table and Betty realized Jughead must have ordered it in advance and arranged for it to be brought only upon her arrival. 

“I did not know which ones you liked, so I got them all,” he explained, sheepishly. 

She laughed, softly, as she distributed the cakes between them. She loved him for his care and the way he thought of ways to please her. “You need not indulge me, so, but I shan't complain.”

“You should know that I would give you the world if I can,” he said, softly. 

“Goose,” she teased, biting into her cake. “You already have.”

**********

Alice met them at the front steps of the house at Elm, her welcoming smile betraying nothing of the expediency upon which they informed her of their arrival. 

They’d sent advanced notice, but she could not have had more than a day to prepare. 

Betty knew for a fact that Alice would have preferred more time, but the situation could not be helped. They had no influence over the workings of the post. 

As soon as the footman swung their carriage door open, Alice opened her arms wide and said, “Ah, my darling! You look positively glowing!”

It wasn’t the kind of greeting she expected.

“Oh, my God,” Betty whispered under her breath. 

“Be pleasant, Betty,” Jughead muttered behind her.

She was assisted off the carriage. “Hello, mother. You are looking well.” 

Alice moved seamlessly into exchanging cheek kisses with her. “But of course. The house is thriving and we are all glad to have it’s master back.”

She was, of course, referring to Jughead, who looked, at that moment, like he would rather be strapped to a railroad track than be called “Master of the House.”

“‘Jughead’ will do, Mrs. Cooper. Thank you for having us on such short notice.”

Alice waved his concerns away. “The house is always presentable and it never takes much to freshen your rooms.” She led them inside, with the footman taking care of their luggage. “How was your train trip?”

“Uneventful,” Betty replied in a mild tone. Perhaps she was relieved about that fact.

This did not dull Alice’s manic shine. “I’d say given your penchant for trouble, dear girl, that is a good thing.”

Betty threw Jughead a resigned look. It did not take long for her mother to walk that tightrope between concern and criticism. 

“But I am glad you’re here,” Alice added quickly, the smile never leaving her face. “Safe in Riverdale. Goodness knows, everyday you are in New Kin makes we wonder if I will ever see you again.”

“Perhaps we should catch up in the salon,” Jughead suggested in a more upbeat tone. 

“Well, I don’t mind that,” Alice said. “If that is what you wish. I hope you’re not just being polite. You are absolved of this obligation to sit with us. You are well within your rights to escape to your room for a quick kip. I won’t be offended and I’ll be sure to send for you when dinner is ready.”

Betty was beginning to realize that her mother was being abnormally congenial. This was not the Alice Cooper she expected, and Betty, for all her exasperation at her mother’s generally critical disposition, would rather have _ that _than this bizarre version of her. 

“I do not wish to escape either of you,” he said, eyebrow arching in surprise. “Believe it or not, I _ do _wish to sit down and chat--to put it mildly.”

Betty interjected before Alice went into another thread of obsequiousness. “Mother, we’ve come here to discuss a very important matter.”

Alice gasped, feigning surprise, but Betty could clearly see she was excited about something, her bright eyes shifting between her and Jughead. “You have? Tell me. It sounds so serious!”

Betty eyed her, suspiciously. “Did you put too much laudanum in your tea, mother?”

“Not particularly. Tell me what this important matter is.”

“It’s about Charles. And my father.”

“Oh.” Alice instantly deflated. “I thought—well, of course it isn’t, because you are both the most vexingly unpredictable two people I know.” She shot Jughead a glare to end all glares, and his initial surprise immediately transitioned to his signature eyeroll.

To Betty’s mind, that sounded and looked more like the Alice she knew, and it was a relief to have it back, but now Betty felt like she should know what Alice was expecting them to say, instead. 

Perhaps seeing the look of perplexity in Betty’s eyes, Alice rolled her eyes and said. “Think nothing of it, and let us get to this discussion you wish to have. As Master Jones said, the salon would be perfect.”

****************

Jughead always had a sense of the Lost Lamb come home whenever he walked into Elm. 

He wasn’t lying to his mother when he said Elm felt like his home away from home. 

He had spent many years of his life within these walls and they were some of the best years of his life. Even when he insisted on going back to their hovel in the Southside on many nights, intent, perhaps, on ensuring that he would not get too attached to Elm and its residents should all its promises of love and comfort be instantly taken away, he grew an unbreakable attachment to it, anyway.

It had been Charles who took him through its doors, but it was Betty who wove him into its halls, rooms, nooks, and crannies. Most of the memories he had in Elm included her, and he could not imagine being here without Betty by his side. 

Even Alice, as prickly as she was, completed the picture. The only one missing was Charles, and it still ached that Charles had to die to drive home the fact that he was as much a part of Elm as the rest of them. 

Jughead suspected that Alice knew this on an objective--or more frankly, a financial level. Her overwhelming congeniality on their arrival was at first surprising, but he realized exactly what Alice was expecting when she directed her frustration at him, and he had a feeling that this won’t be the last he’d hear of it. 

As they sat in the salon, Alice with her cup of what was possibly spiked tea and Betty asking, _ twice _ and with near-threatening conscientiousness _ , _whether the rest of the tea was Laudanum free, he wished, sincerely, that he and Betty could sometime in the future, be here in Elm for reasons having nothing to do with investigating their brother. 

Betty was young, still, despite what all the matrons say, and given that she had a career to look forward to at the Guild, she did not need anyone else’s fortune to help her survive. In due time, she would have enough in her bank to procure a place of her own, if she desired. She would not have to stay in the Jones home, should she prefer complete independence, especially since his mother had proven to be toxic to her.

If Alice expected him to propose to her daughter--or engage her, depending on how Alice saw it as: a union or transaction, she might have a long time to wait, for he suspected that Betty would not take kindly to such a notion, either way. 

He was far more interested in preserving Betty’s affection and respect, something he could maintain without forcing her to wear a ring. She had such a bleak perspective of anything approaching matrimonial matters, and he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t keen on it himself, having witnessed its transactional nature with the families around him. His mother certainly toyed with the idea. 

Still, he sometimes wished marriage didn’t spell the end of so many things for a certain subset of their society. Even in the more progressive society of the Kin, there was something about marriage that enforced certain expectations, that limited, instead of broadened, and more for one gender than the other. 

Betty had so many things to offer and explore that he still marveled at the very idea that she wished to be with him, flaws and all. He felt lucky, and he was still grappling with the insecurity that she would one day awaken and realize that among the Kin, she could snap her fingers and have _ several _suitors waiting at her door. 

Apart from her brilliance at all things Peace Dealing and her fearless thirst for knowledge, he was, much to his chagrin, hopelessly gone on how beautiful she was, from her wavy golden hair, her fathomless green eyes, to the shape of her body. He never knew how he delighted in curves until he was staring at and touching Betty’s. 

The Locked might have been too stupid to give her the attention she deserved, but the Kin certainly knew what Betty Cooper was worth. He had thought, on several occasions, that if he didn’t keep his wits about him, the likes of Reggie Mantle and Archie Andrews were just waiting for their chance to swoop in. 

“Jughead Jones!”

Jughead broke out of his reverie at the sharp tone Alice had directed at him, realizing that he had been too busy examining the perfect plump of Betty’s lips to even know if Alice had been addressing him. “Sorry, Mrs. Cooper, did you ask me something?”

Alice glared once again, no doubt thinking that he was an idiot for being so enamored of her daughter and saying nothing about it. “I asked after your mother’s health. Is she doing well?”

“Why, yes. She is well. I did not realize you cared.”

Alice scoffed. “Care is a strong word.”

Betty made a sound of exasperation. “I doubt she thinks any better of you, mother. She knows about Charles and his true origins.”

Alice made a face. “Oh, dear. I’m surprised FP hasn’t been smothered in his sleep.”

Jughead scoffed. “Murdering her husband will inconvenience no one but herself. The fact that Charles had passed and named me the sole heir of his fortune probably made mother less inclined to complain about it.” He realized a heartbeat later that was an incredibly astute but brutal assessment of Gladys.

Alice stirred her tea. “Oh, she knows of the inheritance, as well?” 

“Yes, but she does not know that I know she knows.” 

Alice paused, no doubt to parse what he said. “So how do you know she knows if she did not tell you she knows?”

This was getting slightly ridiculous. 

“Mrs. Jones told me,” Betty said. “And she assumes that she has cowed me into keeping that knowledge from Jughead.”

Alice’s spoon made a ringing sound on her plate. “Cowed you? How on earth did she even think that possible? Did she threaten you with words? Or with a switchblade? The Gladys I know wouldn’t be above such an implement. And I assume that you are only _ pretending _to be cowed, Elizabeth Cooper. I taught you that much.”

Jughead supposed Betty’s role-playing prowess did have to come from somewhere. 

Betty frowned. “I wonder now whether she ever showed you that switchblade, mother.”

Jughead immediately recognized her deflection, because Betty had refused to tell him what his mother had threatened her with, too. 

“She never dared, with me, but I’ve seen her use it on others. Of course, we were very young back then, and at the time, we didn’t know our fates would be intertwined, somehow.” For all the messiness of her past, Alice smiled as she said this, as if she relished those memories. 

“She told me many things that day, actually,” Betty continued, and Jughead readied himself for the revelations that could very well append both their worlds. “She told me that Charles killed my father.”

At this, Alice’s face turned a nearly impossible shade of purple. “She told you _ what?” _

Betty was not deterred. “She told me that that the Imperium excommunicated him based on accusations of murder--that he killed my father.”

“Charles did not kill your father,” Alice said in a clipped tone. “Your father was lost at sea and that is the truth. Charles and I, along with our coachman, brought him to the docks that morning he boarded that ship and sent him off to sail on a business opportunity at the Cayman Islands. Pirates attacked the ship, which sank into the ocean as it burned. If he survived, I’ve heard no word of him.”

Betty paused, waiting for Alice to continue. 

They’d heard this tale told about Hal Cooper over and over, but something about Alice’s phrasing this time made him pause. “What aren’t you telling us?” 

Alice sighed and rolled her eyes. “Not a lot, honestly. Sometimes I wish I did kill your father, Betty. I already had the tea cakes and arsenic.”

Betty gasped. _ “Mother!” _

“I didn’t do it,” Alice said, as if she were being accused of trampling on their neighbor’s flowers instead of contemplating the murder of her husband. “He was going mad, growing deeply unstable, and he unnaturally fixated on you--his daughter. I also think he was having an affair with his deceased cousin's wife, but frankly those were just rumors.”

“Good, God,” Betty cried, hand to her throat. “You _ made tea cakes with arsenic on them?” _

Jughead was not at all surprised that Betty had fixated on that particular point. 

Alice gave a pert nod. “Nearly sent it with him in a little parcel as we dropped him off at the docks.”

Betty’s jaw dropped at this very unnerving declaration. 

“Oh, pish,” Alice hissed. “I lost my nerve. Threw the cakes into the Hudson where it probably killed a few fish and seagulls. That he set sail was a boon in itself, but getting attacked by pirates--stroke of luck.”

“Mother there were other people on that ship!”

Alice made a sign of the cross which Jughead was not sure she did correctly. “God rest their souls, as the Locked say, or some such thing. You say that they blamed Charles for Hal’s loss at sea? Utterly preposterous. For one thing, Charles’s sea legs left little to be desired. Even if he disguised himself as a marauding pirate and attacked your father’s ship, I don’t believe he would have had enough time between being sea sick to stab your father with a sword.” 

“This is no laughing matter,” Betty said. “The Imperium claims he fabricated father’s sea journey, that he never boarded that boat because Charles had murdered him, and they used that claim to excommunicate him! Recompense, they said, because his family demanded justice! Was no one called to testify for him? Who is this family of his that I never knew of?”

Alice sighed and shook her head. “Excommunications are a closed matter. It is not a courtroom. And Charles had refused to say what any of it was about. He said he was forbidden by the terms of his hearing to tell anyone about it, lest they suffer the same fate as he. What accusations they brought against him, he had accepted as truth. Why, I don’t know, but if you’re smart, you should know that trying to find out will get you in trouble, probably the serious kind. You should stop asking questions.” She looked at both of them as she said this, and putting her cup of tea aside, she stood and went to one of the cabinets. She pulled out, of all things, a bottle of bourbon. 

Jughead can’t say he was all that surprised, but Betty scowled. “Mother!”

“You see what you made me do?” Alice said, taking out a glass and pouring some bourbon into it. “Do you care for some of this, Jughead, dear?”

Jughead was far more shocked at being called “dear” by Alice Cooper than being offered bourbon by her. “Thank you, but no.” 

Alice shrugged. “Your loss.”

He recognized, of course, that Alice had not answered Betty’s question about Hal’s family. It did not seem like Alice would reveal it, and Jughead knew how to pick his battles. He would insist on that question at another time. 

Betty exchanged incredulous looks with him, but he nodded, encouraging her to tell Alice why they were here. 

“Mother, did you receive a vessel in the mail? Something with sigils on it.”

Alice took a sip of her bourbon and scowled. “That is the reason you came back to Riverdale, isn’t it? Charles’s Daemon!”

“So you know it’s his!”

Alice rolled her eyes dramatically. “Of course I know it’s his! It said so on the note--and the imbecile who wrote it should’ve known better, by the way, writing that down!”

“Why didn’t you say anything? You could have sent a message or something--”

“And then what? What would you have me do? Release it? It would have gone to you or to Jughead, and if anyone found out that either of you inherited his Daemon, what then? Unlike you, young lady, I do not go looking for trouble for myself or everyone else around me!”

“Where is it?” Betty demanded, getting to her feet. “Where is the vessel?”

Alice looked incredibly annoyed. “What do you even need it for? One of you inherits his Daemon, and then--what? Someone will find it on you and ask questions and--”

“Give us the vessel, mother. What we do with it is of no concern to you.”

Alice huffed. “How do you even know for sure it isn’t going to me, or FP, or--what’s your sister’s name, Jughead?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Jughead finally said. “But Betty and I are willing to wager our lives on it. That Daemon will go to either myself or Betty. No one else.”

Alice sighed, looking into her glass of bourbon as she shook her head. “Did it occur to either of you that Charles kept his secrets to keep you both--all of us, safe? Whatever it was they actually excommunicated him for, don’t you think it is better to let sleeping dogs lie?”

Jughead felt his heart ache with anger. “Even if they killed him for it?”

Alice’s face crumpled. “He fell off his horse, Jughead.”

“We don’t know that,” Betty said in a plaintive voice. “None of us saw it happen.”

Alice's eyes filled momentarily, but she wiped it away with a furious swipe of her hand. “The coroner was clear on his report. He broke his neck.”

“Reports can be falsified,” Jughead said. “We all know it can. The coroner could have been paid off, or they could have made a mistake. Even if the coroner’s report was accurate, there were no witnesses when it happened. Betty and I can find out--”

“Why? To what end?”

“Just give us his Daemon,” Betty said. “Just please give us his Daemon.”

Alice didn’t reply, and after a moment, she gulped down the rest of the bourbon and set the empty glass aside. “It’s bad enough that my daughter pokes her nose into things better left untouched, but you, Jughead Jones, just go ahead and encourage her ways. You were made for each other.”

If only Alice knew how true that was. 

“I will give you the vessel,” Alice said, getting up as she glared at Jughead. “But if anything happens to my daughter--”

“Mother, please.”

“Nothing will happen to Betty,” he said in a deathly serious tone. “I swear it. I will die before I let anything happen to her.”

Alice made a sound and waved it across her face in clear irritation. “I hid the vessel in the cellar, right behind the rack of Bordeaux wines.”

Charles loved his Bordeaux wines. Typically Alice. 

“I trust you’ll know how to look for it,” Alice continued. “If there’s nothing else--”

“I’m in love with your daughter.” He wasn’t quite sure why he said it, but out of everyone in their lives, Alice was strangely one he trusted, and as much as Betty’s relationship with her was complicated, it was still inspired by love and respect. He didn’t want Betty to keep this particular secret from her mother.

Betty’s mouth fell open, but her look of surprise quickly turned into a shy smile that sent pleasant palpitations through his chest. 

Alice blinked, perhaps to clear the haze of bourbon that was no doubt causing her face to flush. “Does she know--”

He cocked a small grin. “Quite sure she does.”

“Well,” Alice finally said, giving him an appraising look, and for once, it was slightly approving. “I’m glad you told me that, Jughead. Otherwise the parade of suitors I had arranged for tomorrow to spur you to action might have made for very awkward conversation. I’ll cancel all the calls.” She winked, and thereafter left. 

**************

The vessel was where Alice said it would be, stuffed in a cotton nest, which was wrapped in a silken pouch, the entirety of which was tucked in a hidden panel behind the rack of Bordeaux wines. 

As Jughead pocketed the pouch in his coat, he happened to read the label on one of the bottles.

“Château Lafite,” he read out loud. “That is quite the expensive red wine.”

Her eyebrow arched, amusement clear on her face. “Did Stonewall teach you that, as well?”

He chuckled. “My classmates did.”

“Well, it’s your Château Lafite now.”

_ Right. _

He kept forgetting that this house and most of the things in it was officially in his name. 

That fact still felt so outside of him. 

They joined Alice for dinner after that, where they gave her acceptable summaries of Betty’s adventures in New Kin and her impending employment at the Guild.

Alice looked truly exasperated by Betty’s desire to earn a wage by _ Peace Dealing. _

“Can’t you find gainful employment as—oh, I don’t know, a ballerina or maybe even an artist?”

Betty pierced her slice of dressed cucumber with force. She was surprised her mother would even suggest such a thing. The Locked might give special consideration to artists in good standing, but ballerinas did not generally garner the same respectability. “In what constellation could I be an artist? And since when did you consider ballerinas respectable?”

“Principal ballerinas are _highly _respected, and it's a much more ladylike occupation than _Peace Dealing.” _She said the last word with a dramatic growl, as if growling symbolised some form of unacceptable masculinity. “My bridge ladies think you’re in finishing school right now, but that excuse will only hold water until the end of the week. Beyond that, they will surely think that I’ve sent you to a convent to take care of a problem which will go away in nine months, if you get my meaning.”

Betty’s lip curled, twitching delicately with her displeasure. She was in no mood to be charitable. “Find new friends.”

Alice scoffed and drank her wine. “Impossible.”

“You should come to New Kin,” Jughead said, charitably, which earned him an immediate kick to the ankles under the table. Betty’s heel was particularly distinct. He valiantly went on in spite of the pain that reverberated up his leg. “Betty’s accomplishments are celebrated there. You might have a better perspective of her career and friends you don’t have to lie to with respect to Betty’s whereabouts.”

“Mmm, yes,” Alice said with a soft chuckle. “Maybe, but don’t hold your breath. I rather like my life here, free of the judgments of the _ Kin _. The Locked are simpler in their expectations and I prefer that, after all’s said and done.”

It was curious, how Alice felt more at home with the Locked. 

But Betty seemed satisfied with this answer, and given that he had already displeased her, it was best to leave it at that for now. 

********************

“It’s the power,” Betty explained, later, as he and Betty lounged before the hearth in his old bedroom. “She has an advantage as Kin over her Locked friends.”

She sat comfortably on the sofa, her golden hair loose from its twist. He occupied the carpeted floor by her stockinged feet, his head resting against her lap. 

He felt more at home here than anywhere else in the house, for this room had always been his. 

Alice had tried to assign him to Charles’s room, but he couldn’t bring himself to rest there. It was bad enough that he missed his brother so much it hurt, but the room and its closets had been emptied of Charles’s things. The tabletops and walls were gone of any pictures and personal implements, too. The only thing of Charles that really remained were the functional objects, like the timepiece on the fireplace mantel, the rifle mounted on the wall, and a painting of Stonewall hung on the wall above the writing desk to hide damage caused by that same rifle when it once accidentally went off. Jughead assumed that the room’s furniture were purchased to Charles’s taste, but there was nothing particularly distinct about them, so Alice could have just as much as chosen them herself.

So it had felt empty, lonely and dead. Jughead refused to move into Charles’s room, so he had settled in his old one, and Betty had found him thus, poking the newly ignited fire in its hearth. 

It was moments like this, he realized, nestled against Betty, collar, jacket, boots, and socks set aside, that he wondered if he would ever venture to leave the city behind and live in Elm. 

The prospect of living in Elm almost felt ideal, with its wide open spaces, country cadence, and quiet mornings, but he knew Betty relished the opportunities of the city, and he himself was years away from appreciating that quiet life for extended periods. 

The city called to them, still, and there were so many things left for them to discover. 

He looked up at her downturned face, the warmth of the fire and hers making him smile at his good fortune. “Hmm, yes. And oh, by the way, did you have to kick me under the table?”

She cast him a sheepish grin. “You invited her to New Kin, and I immediately thought that meant she would have to stay at your house. I happen to think that New York state isn’t big enough for me and my mother, let alone your home.”

He chuckled, closing his eyes when her fingers gently began to twist his hair into curls. “It was the polite thing to do. Besides, you have been courteous to my mother, who does not deserve your courtesy. Alice has been nice to me--”

“Because you are the master of this house now. She barely said your name right before that.”

He was unbothered by these particular facts. Alice will be Alice. “She appeared pleased by my confession, about being in love with you.”

The light drop of her lips on his forehead soothed the tension from his body. “Even without the inheritance you’ve made something of yourself, impressive in your own right. Any mother should be pleased to have you love their daughter.”

“She doesn’t know everything about me.” He realized that he said this in a whisper, as if Alice would be lurking in the closet, waiting for him to slip. 

“Your addiction does not define you. Perhaps one day you might feel comfortable explaining to her why she must not add Laudanum to any beverage served to you, but until then, I shall do what I must to shield you.”

He gave her ankle an appreciative squeeze. “At least she is not lacing my tea cakes with arsenic.”

“Would you believe it?” She threw her hands up and shook her head. “I suppose I ought to be grateful she decided that she couldn’t do it, but to bake them and lace them--she had to have extracted that arsenic from somewhere, too! That poison is not readily available at the local pharmacy. That would have taken days of processing. My mother has the heart of a black widow.”

“She believed she was protecting you.” Honestly, he could not bring himself to judge Alice _ too _much. There weren’t many options for Alice, especially if Hal’s family was powerful enough to force Charles’s excommunication. As it was, Alice didn’t do it, nobody knew she did, and it still came back to bite them. Perhaps those pirates were not a stroke of luck. 

He took the pouch from the coffee table and fished out the vessel. It was a standard type receptacle, made of baked clay, with the sigil stamped into it lined with salt and other minerals. The blood that activated the pre-embossed sigil still stained it. The cork that capped it also had a pre-invoked sigil. On the flat side of the vessel, where ink can attach, were the numbers and names. The serial number was merely an identifier for Guild records. It meant nothing to them, but the name said “C. Cooper” 

“Perhaps we can release him tomorrow,” Betty said. “We don’t have to call him just yet.”

Jughead ran his thumb over the cork. “What if the Daemon knows nothing?”

“Then perhaps that is the end of the road. Perhaps it means Charles does not wish for us to embark on any other journey but to be ourselves, to be Daemon Bound.”

Free to be themselves. To be Daemon Bound. 

What a thought. 

He put the vessel back in its pouch, leaving it on the coffee table. It could wait another day. 

He reached above him to cup her face. “It is not the worst of fates.”

“No. I suppose it isn’t.”

His gentle tug had her lips descending upon his, light and soft kisses like a gentle caress, but when her fingers tightened around the curls of his hair, it ignited a fire in him and he opened his mouth to taste her. She responded with a soft sound of approval, and instantly, their tongues twined in breathless heat.

His desire for her was always so instantaneously overwhelming. The lightest touch of their lips always made his body seek more. Perhaps it _ was _the addict in him, rearing for an outlet, or maybe the bond, where their souls craved for each other’s half, but he liked to think that love was the main driver, the need to be close to her, to have all of her. 

Without breaking the kiss, he rose to his knees as his hands sought the edges of her skirt. Slowly, he pushed the material higher up her legs, trailing his fingers against her skin as he urged the fabric past her knees, and finally her thighs. 

He paused the path of his hands briefly, letting their kiss linger to give her a moment to realize what he’d done, to let her feel what he was feeling. If she did not wish to go further, he wanted her to think she was allowed to stop him at any time. 

For now, she did not resist, even inching her hips closer to the edge of the couch to get closer to him. 

Given permission, he let his desire for her permeate his senses. 

It occurred to him as his hands crept higher up her legs that her skirts did not have as many layers as he thought there would be, and when he slotted his body between her knees, he let his fingers brush against the edge of her stocking and garter belt, where he felt a considerable swath of bare skin between the garters and her knickers. 

He never knew knickers to be so scant. 

He gasped, trailing his hands along this patch of nakedness. “Your knickers—“

“Are shorter.” She pressed kisses along his neck. “Do they please you?”

He almost laughed in a delirium of desire. He tilted her chin with the lift of his finger, pressing his mouth over hers in the hopes of communicating his pleasure at this unexpected surprise. He cupped her head as he kissed her, sinking his fingers into her hair. 

Her hands fluttered over the material of his blouse, and he could feel them tugging his shirt from his trousers. As he moved away to peel off his blouse and undershirt, she shifted her hips and hooked her hands behind his neck, pulling him back into her embrace and the joining of their lips. 

He fell against her, his hips flush between her thighs, and he could scarcely believe they were in this moment, desperate for skin, for the physical connection that had, over the weeks, gotten interrupted, impeded, and restricted. 

The tightening in his trousers was nearly unbearable, and his hips moved unbidden to push against her softness. Her own hips responded to match the pressure and the friction was rippling pleasure through his body. 

A soft moan rose from her throat, and it awakened his senses. His grip on her thighs intensified as he continued the cadence of their hips. 

That she knew what pleased her fired his own desire, and when her moans took on a distinct urgency, his mind scattered to the wind. All gentlemanly thought and tender speech left his consciousness, and he whispered, without a hint of hesitation, “Does this please you, Elizabeth?”

Her head rolled back on her shoulders, baring her throat as she made a sensual sound unlike anything he’d hear before. He watched her come apart beneath him, enthralled by the way the shadows danced over her skin, by the way her golden hair shifted against the silken fabric of the couch, and the near painful pressure of her fingers as they dug into his shoulders. 

It was exquisite, and he wanted to see her undone again. 

She fell back against the heels of her hands, gasping for breath, and he realized, not without a great deal of pride, that he coaxed her ecstasy without yet removing a stitch of her clothing.

They had time. And that was fortunate, because he was still breathlessly, achingly hard.

Still catching her breath, she cradled his face in her palm and he turned his lips to kiss that pulse point on her wrist. 

He smelled that hint of perfume, faint on her skin, and wanting more of her to overwhelm his senses, he buried his nose into the crook of her neck and shoulder, trailing kisses along her throat with soft suction. As he did this, his fingers tugged at the belts of her garter, snapping it against her thigh. She gave a surprised little chirp, followed by a soft laugh.

“Do you know how to undo the clasps?” Her voice was tinged with desire, but also curiosity, perhaps care. She wanted to learn just how much he knew and she wasn’t going to judge, one way or another. 

How nice of her to ask, but it did bring to the fore how little he remembered of his own limited sexual experiences, high as he had been on nearly all occasions. Details were somewhat of a blur, but he did know that while his partners had been women, he’d never had sexual intercourse with them. Not when he was sober, not even when he was high.

Even with his wits compromised, he knew the perils of intercourse with strange partners. Embedded, no doubt, by the very existence of Charles and the unfortunate maladies that befell his poor neighbors in the Southside. 

He was never willing and ready then, but Betty was his everything. He wanted to give all of himself as much as he wanted all of her. 

He sought her lips, savoring the caress of her mouth against his, and as it spread warmth through his body, he felt her finger trail a path down his chest and stomach, stopping where the hair began just below his navel. 

He started to flick the clips on her garter belt open, one by one, her approving moan vibrating lightly between their tongues. 

When her stockings were free, he peeled them off her legs, dropping them to the floor as he pulled away from her kiss. Slowly, he began unbuttoning the front of her blouse. “Am I doing this properly, my love?” he asked, a quiet tease in his voice. 

She bit her lip as she watched him with an intense gaze. “Just as I like it. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

He shook his head, carefully popping each button and running the pads of his fingers lightly over the busk hooks of her corset underneath. “Perhaps, but you should be aware--I may know my way in certain things, but I’ve never been with anyone the entire way before.”

She seemed only mildly surprised. “Jughead…”

“Not that I expect--”

She silenced him with her kiss, and when he settled, she said, “I want us to. I want all of you, and I’ve never done this with a man, so we will do this together.”

He brushed his lips against hers one more time before resuming the unbuttoning of her blouse. The waist of her skirt loosened as she undid the clasp from behind, and carefully, he pushed her blouse off her shoulders the rest of the way. 

He gave into the temptation of her shoulders, the silky smooth slopes and dips more skin for him to kiss and taste. His hands held the shape of her waist, and he felt her shifting even as his lips marked the path down her chest, where her chemise and her breasts spilled slightly out of the top of her corset. 

Her skirt and its petticoats pooled at her feet, and he knew there were layers still, but it was both frustrating and stimulating to navigate them. He wanted more skin. He wanted to feel her against his mouth, and he wanted to feel the contours of her body, free of its trappings. 

“May I take off your corset?” he whispered. “Please.”

She nodded, leaning back to let him unhook the busk in front. The hooks came off easier than he thought, and when the corset fell away, there was only her chemise and knickers left. 

The silhouette of her body was visible through the thin material of the chemise, but he was in no hurry to see her naked. He wanted so much to enjoy her, with all of his senses. 

He took her by both hands and led her towards his bed, standing on the precipice of absolute vulnerability. 

He touched her hair, taking a lock of it and letting it fall over her shoulders. “You are so achingly beautiful.”

A blush bloomed on her cheeks, but she did not look away, stepping closer so that she could reach up, her fingers in his hair, and coax his kiss to fall on her lips. 

He wrapped her in his arms, and the delicate material of the chemise made him feel her slopes and curves. He wanted so urgently to fill those spaces. 

He gathered the chemise in his hands, pulling it over her body, and as he peeled it away, her hair cascaded along with it, falling in soft waves as he caught her mouth in a rapidly intensifying kiss. 

Her hand encircled his wrist, coaxing his hand to her breast, and he cupped it carefully, running his thumb against it’s nipple. 

Her soft gasp was followed by a moan, her fingers scrabbling to undo the buttons of his trousers. They fell away easily, and dressed down to his drawers, he lifted her by the back of her thighs and laid her gently across his bed. 

The golden halo of her hair framed her lovely face against his bedspread, and brushing his thumb under her lip, he kissed her as the same hand followed the contour of her throat, then the valley of her breasts. 

He breathed deeply of her in the kiss, applying gentle pressure on the soft slopes and mounds of her with his hands and fingers. 

Her knee rose slightly to run her foot against his leg, and the notion that her legs would wrap around his body made him ache even harder, but he wanted to feel her, to know her body, and as his hand inched towards her navel, he asked her if he could.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want you to touch me.”

He could scarcely think, slipping his hand beneath her knickers and seeking that warmth at the apex of her thighs. 

The wet heat almost sent his senses reeling, and when his touch elicited that thick moan from her throat, he made careful circles around that perfect bundle of nerves. 

Her legs parted and her hips shifted against his fingers. He watched her, enthralled by the way she threw her head back against the bedspread while her fingers dug into the coverlet. His touch grew urgent and he felt her flinch, so he eased the pressure.

“Tell me how,” he whispered, pleading. 

She touched his face with delicate fingers. “Slower. Just a little bit lighter.”

He slowed his touch, applying her instructions, and she sighed contentedly. When he was more certain of his touch, he leaned over for a kiss that he deepened as he slid his fingers slowly in and out of her. As he did this, he pressed gentle circles on her with his thumb.

Her hips canted into his touch and she gasped against his lips. “That feels so good.”

“I know, Elizabeth.”

“Jughead, I’m—“

Her fingers combed urgently through his hair, her grip stinging his roots as she kissed him and moaned into his mouth.

He felt her come apart at his touch, mouth beneath his, her back bowing from the bed. 

He had never been so aware, had never known such need from his partner before. He reveled in her responsiveness, delighted that he could please her so, but he wanted her. He wanted to feel all of her, to be so close to her that there were no spaces in between.”

Coming down from her climax, her fingers relaxed and he buried his face in her shoulder, pressing kisses along her collarbone. “I love you with my soul, Betty, but I need you.”

She nodded, touching his face with the pads of her fingers. “Take off my knickers.”

His heart began to flutter in his chest, and he could scarcely believe that he was going to share all of himself with her. 

He pushed her knickers off, down her hips and knees, until there was nothing to cover her. The sight of her lovely body, curvacious and strong, sent him aching for relief. 

He lowered his lips, kissing around her belly button, and wanting to devour her to his heart’s desire, but there was one thing they needed to do. 

“Are you ready, my love?” he asked, tracing circles along her thigh.

She reached down, combing her fingers through his dark hair. “For the sigil?”

He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. 

“I am.”

Pressing a kiss to her navel, he went to his bedside table, picking up his athame and cutting a gash across his palm. As the blood pooled in his hand, he used it to draw the simplest of sigils against her skin, just beside her belly button. When he was done, he whispered the words to invoke it. It glowed briefly like ember, and Betty made a sound at the gentle heat.

Reaching for him, he held out his hand and she got on her knees on the bed, cutting her hand with the same athame and using her blood to draw a similar sigil on his belly, whispering the equivalent invocation. He felt the flare of heat from its activation. 

It was a sigil of protection, “When one is to engage in intimate acts,” as his father had put it so long ago. The Kin were taught this when they came of age, and one would think that no accidents or diseases would befall the Kin with such a sigil at their disposal, but mistakes would always be made, and if FP had practiced what he preached, Charles would have never existed to bring them all together. 

Jughead pushed some of her hair off her face as he took her cut palm in his, and with practiced ease, he summoned Daemon spectre for them both and healed their cuts at the same time. It was yet another reminder of them being Bound. Normally, the Kin had to summon their own Daemon spectre to heal themselves. That he and Betty could share each other’s Daemons felt special, especially now. 

Lifting her palm to his lips, he kissed it lovingly before placing it over the ties of his drawers. 

She passed him a tentative look and when he nodded encouragement, she pushed the fabric down his hips. 

He watched her face, wondering if he should be nervous. This was Betty, and baring himself to her should not have to give him cause for worry. 

When his garment fell away, she looked up at him with curiosity, inching closer on her knees. 

“It’s lovely. As expected.”

He laughed, softly, and she giggled against his chest. He lifted her chin, pressing kisses on her mouth, grinning. “Compliments are not necessary, but they are appreciated.”

Her fingers wrapped around his length unexpectedly and he gasped, his eyes falling closed at the wave of sensations. 

Her hand fell away. “I apolo--”

_ “Don’t,” _he whispered, taking her hand and placing it back around him, guiding her to stroke him. 

The pleasure spread through his body, and when she gripped harder, it felt so good that he took her hair in his fist and crashed his lips over hers. He could not help but push into her hand, moving to a fractured rhythm. It was all he could do to keep from falling over the edge. 

“I want you inside me,” Betty whispered and he had to plead with her to let him go, taking deep breaths to slow the beating of his heart and desire that was rapidly building towards his peak. 

He laid back on the pillows, reaching for her hand, and when she did, he guided her towards him. The very vision of her straddling him, her arms sliding over his shoulders, made him heady with desire. 

He trailed his hands down her sides, resting them against her hips, and he nuzzled her breasts, opening his mouth to take one peak and rubbing his tongue against her nipple as he sucked. Her moan reverberated through her chest, and as he looked up at her face, he told her. “Take me this way.”

He did not know if she’d experienced penetration with her previous partner. It did not matter to him if she did, but if this was to be the first time for her to do so, he wanted her to have this control, so that it might hurt less.

She held his face in her hand and he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes as she settled against him. He could feel her arousal against his cock, but she went no further, and when she tilted his face up to kiss him, he kissed her with desperation, fingers digging into her hips. 

Her hips shifted, sliding him gradually into her, which did nothing to ease his pleasure. He gasped, his breath stuttering as he blew it through his lips. He looked up at her, and he saw the tension in her forehead, even felt the tightening grip of her fingers on his shoulders. 

Reaching up, he brushed his thumb over her cheek. “We don’t have to.”

She breathed, her fingers loosening and the lines smoothing from her brow. “My lord,” she breathed. “I want to.” 

Her mouth fell upon his, and their tongues tangled in slow circles. This time, the shift of her hips brought her flush against him, and her soft whimper of pain pulled him back in the moment, even as the pressure and perfect warmth sent him nearly spiraling. 

He breathed through the sensations, closing his eyes to control his impulse to push back, to wrap her in his arms and move to a more rapid cadence. His breath stuttered, and he realized that his fingers had curled into themselves, resisting his primal urge to take control. 

Betty hadn’t moved, and he would wait an eternity until she was ready to do so. 

When she did move with a slow roll of her hips, he could have very well swooned from the pleasurable sensations, and he found himself groaning when she did it again, and again. 

As her body continued to move above him, the threads of his control frayed. His fingers splayed open to hold her by the back of her thighs, and when he fell back on the pillows, his grip started to set her pace. 

Nothing had ever come close to the pleasures of this. 

“Does this please you, my lord?”

He did not even know how to answer that question. That she called him that as they made love was so unexpectedly satisfying that he dared not voice it. 

Overwhelmed with pleasure, he lifted his hips to push back, and she gasped as she bucked the slightest bit. It felt so good, but he was afraid he had lost himself. “I’m sor--”

“D-Do that again,” she breathed. “Please do that again.”

_ Oh, sweet lord. _He did it again, gladly, and each time he pushed back, she moaned her approval. 

He closed his eyes, as it was all he could do to prevent his release. 

She called out his name in a drawn out moan and whispered, “I’m coming.”

When he felt her orgasms, he lost himself inside her, pushing his hips off the bed and letting his climax blanket him in its waves. 

He might have transcended reality--the orgasm was so intense. He’d had orgasms in the past, sometimes by the ministrations of others, more often by himself, but to be inside a woman, inside Betty--it was beyond anything he’d ever known.

And when he came down from it, Betty had already collapsed against him, and his ears were ringing from the intensity of it all. 

He was still catching his breath, still regaining his wits when Betty’s kiss sought to revive him, to bring him back down. He wrapped her in his arms to prolong the kiss, but when it was over, she rolled over to his side and let their breaths settle as they stared into one another’s eyes. 

He was still at a loss for words. 

He touched her face, following the contours of her cheeks, and then her chin, with his fingers. “You are extraordinary.”

She turned so that she may kiss the tips of them. “No more than you.”

He loved her with a burning passion and it was not likely to abate anytime soon. Her mind and talents were enthralling enough, but to know her body would only serve to intensify his devotion.

“I wish that we may be extraordinary together, again,” he said with a tilt in his exhausted smile. 

She smiled back and flicked some hair off his forehead. “We are always that, Juggie. Together, we can only be better than we ever imagined we could be.”

Indeed, better. More than he ever imagined any of it to be.

Tbc

  
  
  



	16. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

“Focus, Jughead.”

“I am focusing.”

“You are _ not. _I can sense that your eyes are open.”

His chuckle rippled through the Elm family library. “Oh, you can sense it? Your eyes would have to be open, as well, for you to know that for certain, which means your focus does not model the standards you expect of me.”

She sighed and did open her eyes. Sure enough, his bright blue ones were staring right back at her, a smirk on his face. “Juggie.”

He grinned, but he did have the decency to look sheepish. “I apologize. I am hopelessly distracted by… well, _ you. _”

He said it in the tone that so easily sent her insides melting and she instantly forgave him. It was, she thought, only fair, that as much as he indulged her in her shenanigans, he knew exactly how to get his way with her, too. Besides, she was certain that the fault of his distraction half-rested on her actions prior. 

Not that she regretted them. Far from it. She was a physical being and found that her regrets more often lay with things she _ refrained _from doing, so her first instinct was always to act. To do. 

This morning, waking up in bed beside him, the anxiety of being one day closer to going back to New Kin, where their privacy would not come so easily, beset her. She felt a compulsion to make the most out of this relative freedom to be with each other and to be more open about their relationship. 

So she nudged him awake, saw the easy smile on his face as his eyes opened, and was utterly certain that he wouldn’t mind if she took the initiative to explore him. With her tongue.

Clearly he wasn’t prepared to receive fellacio from a young woman such as herself. Perhaps he didn’t even believe her capable until then—for it was more commonly a practice performed by paid partners, but his shocked swearing very quickly transitioned to his fingers in her hair and praise she never knew could be arousing, so it was not presumptuous of her to assume he approved of her boldness. 

The ensuing result of this caper was his very erotic turnabout, a turnabout so well executed that the mere memory of her fingers clutching the hair on his head between her thighs could send her over the edge if she let it. 

So perhaps she should have known he would be uncooperative about relinquishing the luxury of their relative privacy, because he was so deeply delighted by his success that he had endeavored to convince her to stay in bed all morning.

“It takes an eternity to remove all of your clothes,” he argued, while amorously pressing kisses along her shoulder. “If you endeavor to don them just to have me relinquish you of the same later—it does not seem like a practical use of our time.”

But in spite of that compelling argument, he did have to scramble out of bed when the valet Alice had sent up to rouse him came knocking on his door. 

“We keep finding ourselves in this situation,” Betty had whispered as she hid under the covers and Jughead hastened to hop inelegantly into his trousers.

Jughead grinned in spite of his harried state, so clearly entertained by all this, or perhaps he was just in a very good mood. “Yes, we seem to. Perhaps the universe is implying that we embrace it, that instead of rushing off too often, we must stay in bed and rejuvenate.”

“I suspect that your interpretation of the universe’s intentions lean to your advantage.”

“My advantage is your advantage.” He winked, going to the door and cracking it open. She heard him make his excuses to the valet, apologizing about needing more time to prepare, privately.

There was a pause, then the valet said, “Very good, sir. Shall I come back in fifteen minutes?”

“Yes, please. Thank you, Winston.”

She heard the door close and she emerged from the blankets just as Jughead slid back into the covers, curling her into the crook of his body. 

“I should go back to my room. If mother sent the valet, the lady’s maid won’t be too far behind.”

“I wouldn’t fuss,” he murmured into her neck. “The valet knows you’re here, and he will tell your lady’s maid.”

She felt her face warm. “How did he—“

“He spied your corset. And your skirt. I tried to shield them with the door, but there was no hope for it.”

She looked at her discarded clothing festooned in front of the fireplace, where one would have full view of it standing outside his bedroom door. She sighed and did throw the covers right back over her head for a few minutes more.

She did eventually run back to her room, with Jughead’s help, for the many articles of clothing did overwhelm.

With everyone back to their proper places, they were able to start their morning sooner rather than later.

That she could function with any sense after that was surprising even to her, but she wanted them to both be ready for Charles’s Daemon when they released it, whomever may get it.

She endeavored to do some quick research in their library, among Charles’s old books, and she found references to inherited Daemons and what the experience was like. 

The books said that inherited Daemons often came to someone unexpectedly, so being “prepared” was not a requirement, but it was also true that while most inherited Daemons could be received without incident, some have been known to cause varied unsettling effects, like dizziness, mild hallucinations, dry mouth, cold sweats, and in the worst circumstances, nausea and pain.

Those who have had the good fortune of being “prepared” for a Daemon’s reception have sworn by such methods as meditation, relaxation, and affirmation.

For their purposes, Betty chose meditation, which consisted of breathing exercises, quiet contemplation, and calming teas.

Jughead, for all of his loud complaints and grudging acceptance of vigorous training and exercise, was not entirely keen on meditation, either. If she was a physical being, Jughead was a thinking being, and “clearing his mind” was the absolute antithesis of who he was. 

_ To think, _ he said, _ is to exist. _

“Truly, I cannot comprehend how foolish people manage to walk this earth,” she recalled him saying in some recent past.

In that respect, she could begin to understand why he found meditation so unhelpful, but it also gave her insight into his bouts of insomnia, which was perhaps more reason for her to encourage him to find _ his _quiet place.

Her efforts to get him to sit quietly across her on the floor between the shelves has been, for the most part, unsuccessful. Even using the vessel as the focal point did not help.

Calmly, she tried to explain. “I think it important to give your mind some time to be free of your usual cares without first beating it into exhaustion or addling it with… medication.”

He seemed amused by her side-ways mention of his past use of mind altering narcotics. He seemed, in fact, amused by all of it. She thought she should be annoyed, but Jughead was so often supportive of her endeavors that she might venture to indulge him this time. 

With his half-cocked smile and his gaze still trained intently upon her face, he asked, “How necessary is this, my love?”

Her lips puckered slightly into a pout. “I just wish to make sure that we don’t suffer any negative effects when receiving Charles’s Daemon.”

His eyebrow arched and his amusement was replaced by something else far more tender. “Are you certain you aren’t just delaying the process? I understand that doing this--releasing Charles’s Daemon, feels like reliving the day of his death.”

For a moment, she wondered if he abhorred meditation so much that he would say such a thing, but as she pondered his words, remembered the feelings of grief and loss that any revelation of Charles tended to cause her, his words seemed less ridiculous by the moment. 

The Infernal Sphere had shown her that this was one of her fears--learning the truth about Charles. 

Certainly, the last few days with Mr. Kinkle and her mother should reassure her of Charles’s character, but it seems that the unknown was far more frightening to her than she realized.

She wasn’t putting off the Daemon’s release. She was putting off hearing the truth. 

He was right, and she recognized how contrived her research was, more so when her eyes began to betray her once again, stinging with tears.

She could never, with Charles. She wiped away any moisture from her eyes with the back of her scalloped sleeve and grabbed the vessel, pressing her thumb against the cork. “You are right. We should just--”

She found herself stilled by his hands around hers. His quiet shushing eased the grief that had gripped her and she sighed as she cast him a contrite look. “I’m sorry.” 

“Please. _ I’m _ sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to make you sad. We don’t have to release him _ now.” _He shook out his handkerchief, gently offering it to her. 

She took the handkerchief and momentarily smiled at the thought that she had never actually seen Jughead use it for himself. Did gentlemen only ever keep these in their coats to offer to ladies in distress? “It’s not your fault, Jughead. Charles’s death… it still weighs heavy on my heart. I know you understand this, for you must feel the same if not more. You saw him as your role model, a man you aspired to take after. Your respect for him was unconditional. I saw him as a father figure, someone I sought to outsmart when he imposed rules on me, even as I learned invaluable skills from him.”

His soft laughter soothed her frayed emotions. “Charles and I did not always agree. We had our arguments, particularly with respect to how much he thought you should be allowed to experience. And I wasn’t above trying to outsmart him, myself. But he meant a lot to both of us, Betty. His death does still pain me, but what hurts me more is that his legacy has been painted in lies. Now that your mother has confirmed that he couldn’t have possibly killed your father, and Mr. Kinkle confirms that there is more to his ex-communication than the Imperium would like us to believe, I feel more certain that Charles prepared us for the truth.”

She looked up to meet his gaze. “I think I am afraid of it, not because it might tarnish his character, but because it might overwhelm me--overwhelm _ us. _What is this secret that had him retreating, not out of cowardice, but out of his desire to protect us all? Why did they let him live then only to dispose of him later? I feel in my bones that the truth will challenge us, perhaps in ways that we would feel unequal to.”

His knuckle rubbed gently against her cheek. “There is only one way to find out.”

He was right, of course. 

Taking both her hands, he waited for her to go on, giving her the reins for what she wished to do. 

“When we release this Daemon, we will be obligated to invoke the sigil that allows us to speak to it. To learn its secrets,” she said. 

He nodded. “We still have to study that sigil. Make sure we do it correctly, for we can only call the Daemon once before it surrenders itself to the Otherrealm.”

“Yes. When we summon him, we’ll be ready.” She took the vessel in her hand. “Let us release him, Jughead.”

He smirked. “No meditation? No teas?”

She supposed he thought himself clever, but she appreciated him trying to lighten the tone of these proceedings. “The efficacy of such methodology, as we’ve discovered, varies.”

She gave him the vessel and he took it in his palm, pressing his thumb just beneath the edge of its cork.

_ “Emetgis ge,” _he said, invoking the seal’s removal.

The sigil on the cork glowed and it popped right off.

Green and red light poured from the vessel’s mouth, filling the spaces between them.

Jughead looked incredibly surprised. “I was certain he would be a gold.”

It was the last thing he said before his eyes fell shut and he lost consciousness.

****************

Jughead’s head was pounding and the lamplight was not helping it. There was a voice swimming in his head, one he had never heard before. 

He saw the vision of a serpent, large and winding, its green eyes piercing in its gaze and its tongue tasting the air. The shiny scales along its body rippled with a green and red glow, and as Jughead skirted the edge of consciousness, he heard the distant sound of a name. 

_ Armoniel. _

The landscape disappeared and his consciousness began to awaken, taking in the sounds and scents of the waking world. As he shifted, he realized that he was on a soft surface, probably a bed, which was slightly perplexing because he did not recall the library to have anything closely resembling a sleeping surface.

Nevertheless, he did manage to grab a fist full of pillow to cover his head with, as the light was most savagely piercing through his eyelids and causing his head to reverberate with pain. 

He groaned, wondering in a brief moment of panic whether he had gotten high again, and he was waking from a hangover.

_ Good, God, no... _

“He’s awake.”

It was Alice, and her voice felt like a sledgehammer to the head.

“Devil’s wanker, my head...” he moaned from beneath the pillow. 

“Jughead Jones! What kind of language—!”

“Not now, mother,” Betty hissed. “If you don’t mind, can you all please vacate the room? I would like to speak with him privately.”

Even her sweet voice, Jughead found, gave him pain.

There seemed to be a mutinous silence before Alice replied. “Very well. Come along, Winston. We shall wait right outside. Betty, call if you need us.” 

He could hear the shuffle of footsteps and the closing of a door, followed by the slow depression of the mattress beside him.

Betty’s soft cooing was followed by the removal of the pillow and her fingers pressing lightly on his brow. A soft blue glow shaded his vision for a moment and then it was gone, replaced by a cool, soothing wave that spread throughout his temple. It gave him immediate relief, and he sighed, leaning into her touch.

“There now,” Betty whispered, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “You’ll feel much better in a bit.”

He kept his eyes closed, for there was a lingering ache still, but he did feel much better. She had no doubt used Daemon spectre to ease his pain, which was why she needed to expel Alice and everyone else from the room. 

If Alice saw that Betty could heal him, it would give rise to Alice’s suspicion, and she would likely ask questions that they were not willing to entertain. 

He took Betty’s hand and kissed the back of it. “You are an angel. Thank you.”

She resumed the soft circling of her fingers on his temple, and it eased the remaining pain from his head. He might have started purring, but he had questions.

“What happened?”

“Charles’s Daemon happened. You inherited it, and since you were unconscious, I had to request assistance from Winston and mother to get you back here.” She touched his upper arm lightly. “I saw the Daemon leave the vessel and go to you, here.”

With the pain in his head waning, a mild burning sensation made its presence known, right around where she touched him.

Feeling better, he pushed himself up in bed to a sitting position and endeavored to unbutton his vest. She helped him, and when his clothing was loosened, he pushed back his collar and sleeve to look, and there it was; Charles’s Mark. A fearsome Basilisk. 

Jughead laughed at the irony. “Well, I suppose it was Charles who gave me a Serpent tattoo after all.”

They’ve never seen Charles’s Mark. When Kin are excommunicated, their Marks are defaced as their Daemons are taken away. The proceedings are shrouded in mystery, given the penalties of revealing its secrets, even after one’s death, so this did feel like a belated reconnection, even with the blinding headache. 

“Hmm, yes. Perhaps if we had meditated, like I suggested, your headache would not have beset you.”

He did see that coming and he tilted a smile. “But you _ were _putting it off.”

She shrugged but did not argue. “Has it introduced itself?”

His waking dream was a brief introduction, he realized. He nodded and whispered in her ear, “Armoniel.”

The Mark looked fierce, the Basilisk’s fangs drawn to full strike, and that was typical of Marks, where Daemons were presented at their most fearsome, but Jughead remembered a calmer, more ponderous entity, perhaps waiting to strike, but nonetheless careful. Wise. 

“Did you ever find the meaning to your Daemon’s name?” he asked as he ran the pad of his finger over the serpent’s head. “The Kin don’t talk about names for obvious reasons, but many Daemons have been sighted in history by the Locked, and they managed to obtain the Daemons’ name, somehow. Likely Seers and they didn’t know it, and perhaps due to their unique abilities, they see and hear things different from the Kin. The Locked have chronicled their encounters in various scriptures, mostly religious in nature, some mystical. Our Daemons are deemed as monsters and angels, images of them distorted through the ages--depending on one’s culture, I suppose. The Locked have assigned meaning to the names, and I don’t think much of Locked superstition, but somehow, when it comes to these names, they aren’t far off the mark.”

Her eyes were bright with interest, and he adored that about her. She was constantly thirsty for knowledge. Constantly ready for new information. 

“What do the books say about Elemiah?” she asked.

“Elemiah is a protector. He will take you under his wings while you prepare, and when you are ready to fly, he will lift you up and set you free.”

She laughed and he was curious as to why. “What’s funny?”

“That is not Elemiah,” she said. “That is _ you. _ You are a protector, always and forever.” She touched his weak arm as she said this, reminding him that it was his instinct to protect that made him jump between Trevor and a bullet. “And you give people the help they need. I, for one, have benefited from it, and _ Reggie…” _

He frowned. “Oh, he’s _ Reggie _ now?”

She smirked. “Are you still jealous of him?”

The correct answer would be that he wasn’t, but Reggie was no fool, and the man had many qualities that Jughead knew Betty could admire. 

He made a soft snorting sound, which she may construe as a denial, or a lack of it. 

She took it to mean the latter as she traced the image of Armoniel with her finger, which sent prickles of pleasure through his body. “You shouldn’t be. I was naked in your bed for hours and I am currently imagining how I would like to be so with you, again.”

This was not the time to feel seduced, but she was testing his self-restraint. “Betty, please. Apart from the fact that anything you say in that regard renders me weak, especially considering this morning’s delectable proceedings, your mother is outside, perhaps even listening through the door. You know that is the only reason she left this room without a quarrel.” He cast her a woebegone expression. “Have mercy.”

She laughed, no doubt delighted by his complete lack of will when it pertained to their intimate relationship. “And what does Charles’s Daemon name mean? Do you know?”

It was a wonder she ceased tormenting him so easily. 

He shook his head. “Not yet, but I can find out, not that it matters all that much.”

“Shall we summon him tonight?”

He nodded, “I think so. Less people here in Elm to poke their nose into our affairs.”

Betty did not disagree. “And then tomorrow, we head back to New Kin.”

He found himself distraught that they might not have the same easy freedom in New Kin that they were enjoying now. 

He leaned into her, a surrender to an impulse that’s been taunting him all morning. The tip of his nose brushed against the crook of her neck and shoulder, teasing himself with the mild scent of her skin mixed with her lavender bathing soap. He gave into his craving to press his lips against her neck. 

That she did not resist—even trailing her fingers into his hair to encourage him, had him sighing with longing. “Tell me how we can conjure the time and place for this intimacy, in New Kin. Shall we devise schemes? Employ manipulation? Bribe Moose so that we may carry on in the backseat of his autocarriage?”

She laughed, softly. “Mr. Mason will likely leave us stranded halfway to work.”

“You, never. He will drag me out by the scruff of my neck and drive you to work without me.”

“I may pay to see that.”

He might have taken offense if she hadn’t pecked kisses on his lips. He did attempt to continue the gentle ribbing in the hopes of progressing to more, but Alice knocked insistently on the door (of course), and he had little choice but to let Betty allow her mother inside. 

Alice walked right in and took a moment to deal both of them disapproving glares before turning to Jughead. “You seem better disposed.”

“Your daughter has a healer’s touch.”

Alice seemed pleased by his praise and Betty by his brass. If he were a prat, he might be daft enough to think he had a handle on the Cooper women.

“Just one of her many talents,” Alice said, giving Betty an approving nod. 

Jughead was perhaps most intimate with her talents, particularly talents Alice didn’t even know Betty had. 

Certainly, Betty’s secret wink proved she knew it.

He wondered how he was ever going to function in normal society again. 

“Well, since you seem recovered,” Alice continued, “I suppose Betty could be convinced to socialize. I promised Mrs. March that I’d bring her with me for mid-day tea at her house.”

Betty’s jaw dropped. _ “Mother!” _

“Don’t _ mother _ me. There was a time before--” she waved flippantly in his direction “--Master Jones arrived that I flirted with a certain proposal--that you would accompany Mrs. March as she traipsed through Europe, and that she’d find you a suitable husband in your travels. It’s only right that we give her the time of day _ even _when we don’t need her.”

This was, to Betty, even more outrageous and Jughead couldn’t help but stifle his own laughter. 

Alice shot him a menacing grimace. “Well, don’t you be laughing just yet. You will come with us.”

“Oh, no. I’m quite fine where I am. Master of the house and all.”

Alice made a soft sound, like a snort. “You think yourself afternoonified, don’t you? Mrs. March has a grandson, whom she would very much like to introduce to my Elizabeth, today. Very eligible, so--”

His own jaw dropped. “But--”

“I said I’d cancel the gentlemen callers,” Alice said. “I have no control over Bridge Ladies who wish to introduce their grandsons.” She went up to him and whispered in a tone only he could hear. “Besides, I don’t see a ring on her finger, Master Jones.”

There really was nothing to say, even as Alice swept out of the room with Betty close at her heels, doing her utmost to convince her to change her mind, and him realizing that Alice wasn’t going to let him off the proverbial hook that easily.

**************

It was a long suffering afternoon, but Betty thought they endured with utmost grace. 

Jughead, particularly, was relatively agreeable, which meant he didn’t say much at all, spending most of his time glowering whenever Mr. Ollie March-Cromwell, said grandson of Mrs. March, remarked on something particularly evocative of Jughead’s sarcasm. 

Mr. Cromwell seemed like a decent enough fellow, half past his thirties, with a mild disposition, but he was the most awkward man Betty had ever met.

“How do you like your tea, Ms. Cooper? I’d wager sweet, like you are—unless you _ don’t _like your tea very sweet, in which case, you are still—logically, sweet, nonetheless.”

Betty bit her lip, mortified _ for _him. “Plain is fine, Mr. Cromwell.”

“And you are in no way plain, Ms. Cooper! Not at all.”

Betty sighed with the greatest sympathy and the kindest of smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Cromwell.”

Jughead’s deep set glare, watching Mr. Cromwell stumble, never wavered in the least.

His quiet seething whenever Mr. Cromwell tried to flatter Betty, and failing miserably each time, crackled beneath the surface, and the only reason Jughead’s borderline rudeness was tolerated at all was because Alice made sure to mention that he was the sole heir to Charles’s estate.

“Ah!” Mr. Cromwell said as he raised his tea cup. “How do the ladies say it? ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife!’ Isn’t that so true, Mr. Jones?”

Indeed, Jughead might have been kinder to him if he hadn’t ventured to quote, of all things, that particular passage to him.

Jughead’s eyebrow had arched, momentarily tossed Betty a look that said he couldn’t believe he was here, and he replied. “I thought Ms. Austen was being ironic.”

“She certainly was,” Alice replied, sipping her tea. “But they all got married in the end, after all.”

Betty dealt her mother a most uncharitable glare.

One of the highlights of the afternoon was when Mr. Cromwell accidentally called Betty’s hair a lovely shade of corn.

“I mean gold, of course!” Mr. Cromwell said in a hasty correction. “Gold is prettier than corn, no doubt… but to be fair I so love the taste of corn. Not that your hair is fit to eat….” He followed this with a laugh.

Jughead was not amused.

At the end of the call, they said their polite goodbyes and when they boarded their carriage, Alice gave a happy sigh and said, “Well, wasn’t _ that _interesting?”

Jughead’s frown deepened, profoundly,

Betty looked at her mother and shook her head.

“What?”

“That was painful, mother.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Awkward, perhaps, but Master Frownie Face over here might have made Mr. Cromwell less spastic if he didn’t have the look of a Southside Serpent King on his face. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I do not wish to talk about it,” Jughead said in a clipped tone.

“Very well.” Alice seemed unperturbed by his generally displeased demeanor. “We have one more visit to pay--also an avid attender of my bridge parties.”

_ “Mother!” _Betty could feel Jughead’s already simmering disposition boiling over. 

Alice was unconcerned. “Now, now. Our primary purpose is to congratulate Ms. LaMont on her engagement to her beau. You and Jughead won’t be expected to sit with the elders, as Ms. LaMont and her friends will be there, none of whom will be making pretty eyes at Betty, because they are all of them spoken for. I’m sure you’d find that agreeable, Master Jones.”

Jughead quite possibly hated the prospect of having to be an active participant in a group of strangers even more than being called Master. “I would rather get mauled by a bear.”

Alice appeared amused rather than alarmed by his conviction. 

Alice introduced _ Forsythe Penddleton Jones, III _as the proud owner of their estate, while also strongly implying that he and Betty were attached, which would have been perfectly appropropriate, were it not for Alice adding a pointed wink and a softly mouthed, “They’re practically engaged!” that Jughead did not see.

Betty could not abide by her mother sometimes. 

As Alice predicted, they were expected to socialize with Ms. LaMont and her friends, which consisted of her fiance, Mr. Thurston, his sister Ms. Thurston, and his bosom friend, Mr. Allen. 

They were invited to participate in some well-mannered archery in the wide grassy lawn at the back of the house, where they might sit down to tea and cakes under the shade of an old Poplar tree.

Jughead’s suffering was palpable to Betty, even if he managed to paste a grimace on his face that could passably be construed as a smile. 

As they took their turns at the bow and arrow, speaking amicably of theater and fashion for the ladies, and property management for the men, Betty recounted the conversations she’d had with Toni and Jellybean, Cheryl and Valerie, and even Ethel and Donna, all of whom spoke with pride about their professions and expertise, which showcased how their personalities were varied and colorful.

She had no doubt that Ms. LaMont and Ms. Thurston could have been equally as fascinating given the flexibility to do as they wished. As it was, it sounded like Ms. LaMont had a talent for painting, and Ms. Thurston had a flair for literature and poetry. What heights could they have reached if Ms. LaMont were sent to New York specifically to learn from master artists, or if Ms Thurston were encouraged to write and publish by the people who mattered to her the most?

“And what is it that Mr. Jones does, Ms. Cooper?”

Betty took a moment to comprehend the fact that Ms. LaMont was asking her about Jughead’s career and not her own. She realized that she once knew how to answer this same question about Charles by rote and that she could apply the same to Jughead. “Fabrics,” Betty said. “Industrial and specialized alike.”

This was partly true, of course. Charles had several holdings in various industries at once, many of which he was silent partner to, but he had taken a special liking to fabrics and textiles, its colors, textures, and uses. The industrial kind comprised the bulk of the profit, but Charles did enjoy the fabrics supplied to dressmakers, haberdasheries, and furniture makers. It was mainly the reason she had so many dresses to sell. 

Betty could not fathom Jughead continuing this trade the way Charles did, and out of all of their brothers’ holdings, this might be the one Jughead sold his shares of completely, but it was the industry that always had the ladies gushing, and it was no different now as it was then. 

Nobody asked her what _ her _trade was, which was just as well, for she couldn’t quite tell anyone that she was a freelance investigator for the dead and wrangler of wayward spirits. 

In this world, her one occupation was to be well-schooled in the management of a household while maintaining her youthful good looks. It was Jughead who was expected to earn money.

Just like on the train, she was not a being existing on her own, and she was reminded of why she could not live this life in Elm.

She took a peek at Jughead, who seemed only mildly interested in what the gentlemen were saying. He caught her eye momentarily and he cast her a woebegone look, which amused her so much that she forgot that others could be watching.

“You communicate with your eyes, don’t you?” Ms. LaMont said, her gaze shifting between her and Jughead. “Mr. Thurston and I have the same ability. I can tell by the expression in his eyes the very thoughts that cross his mind.”

Betty could only surmise that for Ms. LaMont, that turn of phrase was not literal. “The entire context of scenery lends itself to certain visual interpretations, yes.”

Ms. Thurston grinned. “A pragmatist! Does that mean that between you and Mr. Jones, he is the romantic?”

Betty thought this question interesting, for she never thought perceiving him as a romantic precluded him from being a pragmatist, for he had proven to be both, at one time or another. Perhaps his pragmatism was driven by the romantic and hers was driven by strategy and pursuit.

Even now, speaking to Ms. LaMont, her debunking of psychic connections between them was born of the fact that Ms. LaMont’s assertions were a product of fiction, while the mind reading abilities she shared with Jughead were real, and Betty’s purpose of expressing a logical explanation for it served as a distraction, deflecting from their Kin powers.

However unconscious her intentions were, they were most certainly driven by a mild deceit.

“I suppose he is the more romantic one,” Betty conceded, though lightly. Jughead was never just one thing.

Ms, Thurston grinned. “That is a good thing, Ms. Cooper. Romantic men are more likely to propose. Isn’t that true, Josette?”

Ms. LaMont laughed and nodded. “And don’t you worry. By the time my Thurston and Mr. Allen are done with Mr. Jones, he will think of nothing else.”

Alice’s reasons for bringing them here finally occurred to Betty and it took all of her powers of forbearance not to march right up to her mother and demand that they leave at once.

She risked a glance at Jughead, and she could see his brow was furrowed, but perhaps no more than usual. The gentlemen with him gestured mildly to their group as they spoke, and Betty could only imagine what they were telling him.

It seemed preposterous, but she felt a little like she wished to scream. 

Marriage was not on her list of priorities nor ambitions, and while she thought perhaps she had expressed as much to Jughead, they hadn’t quite spoken so candidly about _ not _ being engaged to _ one another _. 

She hoped that Jughead knew her well enough to understand that the expectations of others did not apply to her.

She observed Jughead take up a bow and arrow as he stepped towards the shooting line. Mr. Allen joined him. 

Jughead seemed serious, but he was replying to something the other two fellows were saying. 

Aligning the fletch with his bow string, he released his arrow moments later. Mr. Allen did the same.

Jughead’s aim was predictably accurate, near the center, while Mr. Allens was expectedly not. 

“Good shot!” Mr. Allen said.

Jughead shrugged. “Could be better.” He looked up and found her watching. He offered her his bow. “Would you care to shoot, Betty?” he called.

Betty nodded and excused herself from the ladies, who were nearly spastic with winking.

She stepped up to the table. “Thank you, Jug--Forsythe.” It annoyed her that they were amongst those who required the use of Jughead’s given name instead of his preferred one. Nonetheless, she nodded properly to Mr. Thurston and Mr. Allen as she took Jughead’s bow. “Gentlemen.”

They bowed as they made way for her to step up to the line.

“Does she know how, Mr. Jones?” Mr. Allen asked.

“She does,” Betty replied, which caused Mr. Allen to blush and Jughead to smile genuinely for the first time.

“Arrow’s a little crooked,” Jughead whispered in her ear, so as not to be rude, but their closeness might have bordered on inappropriate, for the ladies tittered and blushed while the gentlemen cleared their throats. 

She smirked, feeling rebellious. “Is that why you were a little off center?”

“Very funny. You can do better.”

It wasn’t a question.

Laughing, she knocked her arrow then drew it to eye level, following the line of the shaft to its tip. He was right. The arrow wasn’t straight, and she suddenly felt it represented her being back in this world of the Locked: slightly off the straight path, aiming but not quite hitting the mark simply because she was incapable.

“Have you realized yet why mother brought us here?” She made the slightest adjustment, but was a little too distracted by her own question to focus on shooting. She let loose and it was slightly off Jughead’s arrow, away from the center. 

There was a collective gasp, for it was hard to immediately tell from the audience where her arrow had placed itself, but once it was determined that Jughead’s arrow was still closer to the center, there appeared to be a sense of relief, which Betty found baffling. 

The praises for her exceptional archery rang from the gentlemen, and delicate whistles and claps pettered from the ladies, but Jughead had his eyebrow arched in his silence. Whether he was pondering her question or was expressing disappointment at her subpar shooting, she did not know. Perhaps it was both, and he knew that her focus had been disrupted by the very shenanigans that Alice was putting them through. 

“Well?” she asked, so that no one else would hear. 

“I thought those gentlemen were a tad too eager to exalt the virtues of their engagements.”

With her suspicions confirmed, Betty found herself too furious to say anything else on the matter. 

“Don’t yell at your mother,” he muttered while helping her rearrange archery equipment on the table. 

Whether he simply did not want her to cause an uproar or he did not completely disapprove of Alice’s schemes, she was yet to determine. 

As they finally sat to tea, the ladies gently ribbed Jughead about keeping up his archery lest Betty surpass him, while the gentlemen patronizingly told her she could get better with practice. 

With her thoughts already soured by her mother’s machinations, she bitterly surmised that they were expressing relief that she had stayed in “her place” because surely, a woman besting her supposed betrothed seemed like such an uncomfortable situation to them all. 

She hadn’t realized that she was tapping her foot in suppressed consternation until Jughead gently nudged her foot under the tea table with his. She took a few discreet deep breaths to calm herself down. 

Meanwhile, Jughead let the others lead the conversation, and she grew more aware of his unwavering attention, of how his eyes were trained to her face, and while he’d done this in the past—his besotted gaze was now tinged with an unmistakable heat. 

When at last the call came to an end, they gave their well wishes to Ms. LaMont and Mr. Thurston, and piled back into the carriage. 

Though Alice swore there were no more calls, Betty did not let her guard down until the carriage rolled into the Elm carriageway. 

As they shed their hats and gloves at the foyer, Jughead asked if she would like to join him in the gymnasium. 

“Give me a moment and I shall follow.” 

When it was just her and Alice, she dealt her mother the most disapproving scowl. 

Alice pretended to be alarmed. “Oh, dear. What did I do now?” 

“You very well know what you did, and I am warning you, mother. If you continue on this path--”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Jughead and I are in a lovely place and we will not be coerced into a neatly drawn path that you and your Bridge Ladies have conspired to wrestle us into.”

Alice turned up her nose. “I only ever look after our futures, Betty. And one would think you would be glad for this match. He is young, I dare say handsome, and most happily, he is someone you chose for yourself.”

“Mother, please. You shall cease all efforts to extract a proposal from Jughead, or—“

Alice scowled. “Or, what?”

Betty pursed her lips, trembling at the challenge in her mother’s tone, but she was determined to win this battle of wills. “You will not see me darken the door of this house again!”

At last, Alice was outraged. “You wouldn’t dare! Elizabeth Cooper, this is your childhood home!”

“Our circumstances have changed, mother! I am no longer beholden to the rules that once held me. I do not need marriage to save us from ruin. I have the means to earn my keep and we have been given the means to keep this house—“

_ “Jughead _gave us the means to keep this house!” Alice hissed. “He is the sole heir to this estate and he has as much right to turn us out as he does to let us live here!”

Betty could not fathom her mother’s poisoned thoughts. “Jughead would never turn us out! What would make you believe such a thing?”

“He is not _ my _son. He is Gladys’ boy. He might not think to do such a thing but his mother will always try to have her way with him, and unless you are his spouse, she can make him do what she thinks is best for him, and mark my words, none of those plans will include us!”

“This is Jughead! How can you--”

“He already left because of his mother once before!”

Betty thought it best to clamp her lips shut. This was not an argument she was having with her mother, because they were perceiving this matter from two different places. 

She knew Jughead, perhaps better than anyone. She knew why he left all those years ago, and she knew the reasons he came back. She knew his heart and his mind like no one else. 

Alice perceived life the way she did when she discovered she was pregnant with Charles, when her options were limited, and when her decisions could mean the difference between a comfortable life and total ruination. She came from a time when there was no one but herself to look out for her, and marriage was the only tool available to her. 

This was not so much Alice being Machiavellian, this was Alice surviving, and Betty could not hate her for that, not when Alice believed that her aggressive matchmaking was permissible because she and Jughead loved one another. 

“Mother, please,” she said, more gently. “You must trust in me. And you must learn to trust in Jughead. We would prefer to maneuver our relationship on our own, without intervention from others. You must promise me that you will stop this nonsense.”

Alice certainly looked like she was being politely asked to jump into a pit of snakes. 

All things considered, this was a woman who baked poisonous cookies for her husband, so requesting her to cease her efforts to see her daughter married to the heir of the estate seemed a paltry offense by comparison, but Betty has had many things in her life controlled in the past because of youth and circumstance, and now that she had the means to break free, she no longer saw the need to comply. 

“How long do you expect me to desist and do nothing?” Alice asked. 

She supposed she should have expected a negotiation. “For as long as no threat of expulsion from this home exists.”

Alice scoffed. “Well, that could take years, and I am your mother. As such, I am expected to nag you and your beau about marriage. Six months.”

Betty gasped at the immediacy of it. “I am just about to turn twenty!” 

“You should have been married at 18.” 

“Three years!” Betty cried in desperation.

“Why, you may as well brand the letter S on your forehead! That’s S, for Spinster if--”

“I _ know _what it stands for!”

“Oh, calm yourself. Very well, I will give you a year. I think that is sufficient.”

“Not at all. Two years and we will renegotiate.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. One would think you don’t want to marry him!”

“That isn’t it at all!” she cried, and truly, she grew frustrated at all of it, and the very idea that these matters had to be arranged and that her mother was manipulating her into these discussions. 

“And how is it that you are so certain that he does not wish to be engaged with you sooner than you expect?”

“What?”

“Have you discussed this with him? He is nearly halfway to thirty and extremely marriageable. Any reasonable man his age would have it on his mind.”

She was the _ second _mother to say that. Not to mention their peers at the LaMont’s who seem to think that immediate engagement was the only logical outcome to being attached. Would Jughead, then, be really thinking such a thing, especially given that they had shared a bed with nary a stitch of clothing and have clearly expressed their desire to continue to do so? 

He may not ask her next week, or next month, but was he thinking of a timeline at all? 

Now Alice had gone and done it. 

With Betty’s fists on her sides and her jaw set, she cast her mother a glare. “This isn’t over, mother.”

“You better believe it isn’t!”

Turning on her heel, she thundered her way to the gymnasium, thinking that she only had to bear her mother for a few hours more, and that they would be heading back to New Kin at the break of dawn. 

*************

Jughead had the book in his hand while he drew sigils on the floor. As he held the chalk in his other hand, there was a knot between his brows, and he seemed to be puzzling over something, flipping a page over and back.

“I’m not quite sure if it should be _ sokana _ or _ kalu _in this panel here,” he thought out loud. “Would you know?”

Betty was still too agitated to contribute any worthy theories on appropriate Zibu symbols._ Sokana _ and _ kalu _meant transition and synthesis, respectively, but they might as well mean giggle and gaggle. She could not use sense at the moment.

She was glad, at least, that he had decided that speaking to Armoniel was more important than her mother’s mission to engage them. 

Betty looked at the open book and tried to contribute something worthy. “_ Sokana?” _

It was all she could muster.

The corner of his lip lifted as he regarded her. “Am I just so used to the sound of your conviction that your lack of it rings in my ears or are we reading each other’s minds again?”

She sighed and shook her head. “My mother vexes me and it is all I can think about.”

“Clearly. Perhaps talking about it would unburden you.”

She walked around the sigil, noting the size of it and the voids in the inner circle where they were expected to sit. “I’m afraid that is all I could do to expel my aggravation.”

She paused, and when she looked at him, he nodded in encouragement. 

He was, without a doubt, a wonderful man. Any normal woman would _ want _to be engaged to him, and she loved him with all her heart, but she first had to make peace with the very notion of matrimony.

“Betty,” he began, gently. “Would you perhaps like to go out in the gardens?”

That wasn’t necessary, but she recognized that he wanted her to feel comfortable—unrushed. He had closed the book, clasping it as he swung it behind him. He had put it away and she appreciated how, in spite of the importance of what they were about to do, he decided that her concerns were still more important. 

“Mother is a survivor,” she finally said. “She does what she thinks is best.”

He chuckled and nodded. “That seems to be the theme, isn’t it? For mothers?” 

He understood that, she knew. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I wish they would mind their own business.”

He scoffed. “They think their children their business.”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? And who was to say that wasn’t a mother’s prerogative? They, the children, were carried into this world in the vessel of their mothers’ wombs. 

Of course, that was a moot point with Gladys, whose terrible decisions had burdened Jughead the most, but even she claimed that her ruthlessness was the only way she knew how to care for her family. 

Gladys’s words about Jughead and matrimony were now firmly juxtaposed with what Alice said in the foyer. 

“Do you wish to be married?” Betty asked, the words stumbling from her lips before she could stop herself. 

Jughead blinked, frozen to his spot. “Elizabeth Cooper, is that a proposal?”

It was only then that Betty realized that she could have presented her question with more clarity. “I mean, not to _ me, _but--”

“Who else would I want to be married to?” He tilted his gaze, curiosity besetting it. 

Her jaw dropped at the sheer mess she had made. She felt like she had tossed one bomb and Jughead had thrown back ten. Her impulse to ramble was forestalled by pressing her lips together, lest she try to take things back and make him think that she didn’t want him. 

He seemed completely unbothered by her fumbling, however, and his kind eyes slowed her panic. “Start over.”

She could always depend on Jughead to know how to rise back up after a spill. “Jughead, do you feel you should be married? Is that something you wish you were right now?”

He appeared amused, rather than distressed, which was a good sign. At least one of them thought this entertaining. “Marriage should not be an item on a checklist, nor should an engagement be the only assurance that the person you are with will give their heart to no one else.”

Betty sighed quietly, hoping she could explain herself without hurting his feelings. “I’ve only ever wanted to be with you, Jughead, but marriage feels so--”

“Transactional?”

Indeed, there was no better word for it. “I would like for it to be less so. I would like it very much to be about no one else but the two people who promised their hearts, bodies, and minds to one another. Not their mothers, or their mothers’ bridge ladies, or whomever else society deems authorities on the subject.” She threw up her hands. “And I would like it very much if those two people can make their own rules about how they conduct their matrimonial lives, without a panel of judges at every turn to whisper about how we’re—they’re doing it wrong.”

He seemed to give it a quick thought. “The trick is to ignore the judges, I’m told. Easier said than done, I know.”

“Marriage just seems so dreadfully institutionalized.”

He didn’t seem to disagree. 

“Am I terrible to think this way?” she asked. “Does that make me defective?”

His brow lifted in surprise. “Of course not. Betty, you and I both know that we aren’t rule followers. Whatever our mothers tell us to do in that respect—well, they can just both shove it.”

She released a breath that she didn’t even know she was holding and she laughed in relief. “You don’t think me mad? Or unreasonable?”

He sighed. “My love, we’ve only just begun. We still have so much to learn from one another, so much room to grow. We are both young still, you, more so than I.”

“I was told I should be married already and that spinsterhood is a condition that I would soon be unable to recover from.”

He chuckled, closing the distance between them and pressing a warm hand over the crook of her neck and shoulder. His thumb lightly grazed the line of her jaw. “I don’t believe anyone has ever succumbed to such a malady, but if you ever feel the need to be relieved of such an affliction, you must come to me. I have just the thing for it.”

Even with all of Betty’s objections to marriage, she did feel a flutter in her chest at the very suggestion that he would be ready and willing when she was. She gathered the lapels of his coat in her fists. “And should you ever feel the urge to treat my symptoms, you must not hesitate to present your intent for reconsideration.”

“Oh, I most certainly won’t hesitate.” 

She arched an eyebrow.

“When the time is right,” he added. “For both of us.”

His kiss was light on her lips, but it did feel like a promise that coursed through her very veins. His arms wrapped around her and she smiled into the kiss, relishing the gentle caresses of his lips.

When they parted for breath, she tugged at his coat, feeling herself generous. “Perhaps I should have listened to you this morning. We should have stayed in bed.” She kissed him, this time a bit more demandingly.

He did not resist at first, but he started chuckling, and he managed to get a word in between the kisses. “Well, I’m glad to see your mood has been uplifted.”

She nodded, her hand trailing down his chest. “Yes, and I can uplift something of yours, as well.”

“Oh, you are making this far too challenging, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—“

“But!” She gave him a playful, challenging glare. “What could possibly—“

He held up the book of sigils between them, and of course _ that _was more important than her otherwise irresistible urge to tear off his clothing.

She supposed she could wait a few more hours. Sighing, she stepped away. “You are distracting, Jughead.”

“Yes,” he said, opening the book and cocking a smile. “I suppose it’s all my fault.”

She dealt him a withering look that had more than a suggestive lilt to it, but he was right. This cannot wait, and because they’d spoken of marriage and engagements, she found that she was less troubled by her mother’s schemes of it.

She gestures for the book and he gave it to her, open to the page he was reading from earlier.

It took but a moment, but the instructions made better sense, and eyeing the sigil briefly, she said, “It is neither _ sokana _ nor _ kalu. _ Your missing rune is _ rikumana.” _

His eyes lit. “Listen within.” He wagged a finger at her approvingly before he gave her one final kiss. “You are brilliant.”

She watched him draw the final runes in the sigil, finding herself marveling at her good fortune, and thinking, in spite of herself that their bond was their engagement, and though there might not be a ring, she could think of no other man she’d rather spend her life with.

**************

The ritual required for their Daemons to speak to another was simple enough, but the challenge was always in the drawing of the sigils.

Sigils acted like additional keys to the spectral aether. Peace Dealers would always have quick access to spectre so long as they had their Daemons, but the means to manipulate spectre to wrangle, fight, and capture errant spirits and otherworldly entities rested in the sigils.

Without sigils, Peace Dealers cannot capture spirits or trap Wraith Lords. Sigils were their means to bridge those powers between Peace Dealers and spectre.

If the key is wrong, the lock won’t turn.

Jughead was mostly certain they drew the sigil for their ritual correctly. He and Betty had studied the instructions exhaustively, carefully drawing the required runes to fill the circles. It was unlike anything they’d drawn before, but it was par for the course with these Alpha sigils. 

Older sigils tended to be more complicated to begin with. Alpha sigils more so because it required more than one person to complete it, following sequences as they drew. 

With the completion of the sigil, they sat in their designated circles within the circle. 

As was common with the Alpha sigil, they had to cut their hands and hold them together, their blood intermingling as it dripped to the sigil lines and they spoke the invocation.

_ “Odo a londoh.” _

It was an invocation to open a realm and bring them to it--the place where they could speak freely with a Daemon as they are, without the restraints that the realm of the living imposed upon them. 

When the sigil was activated, the room seemed to fall away, and everything but their sigil and themselves ceased to exist. The sigil glowed with their spectre’s light, floating like a disc in empty space. The only other object there with them was the second sigil they drew outside of theirs. 

Betty gasped beside him, and he tightened his grip on her hand. The book said this would happen--that their spectral selves would be transported to this place and that they should not be alarmed, lest they break the sequence and lose their chance at success. 

His own heart was beating rapidly in his chest, and he needed to calm himself so that they could proceed without mistake. They locked eyes, and her gaze calmed him. He nodded to prompt her, and together, they summoned Elemiah and Sabathiel. Their Daemons appeared within the circle, unbothered by the change of scenery. They said nothing, awaiting instruction.

Jughead glanced at Betty. “It’s time.”

She gave another nod, this time of assurance. 

He summoned Armoniel, and he appeared in the second sigil, just as he was in Jughead’s vision: large and serpentine, no fangs bared, and its tongue slithering out to taste the air. 

It occurred to Jughead then that this would be the last time he and Betty would ever lay eyes on Charles’s Daemon, that this would be the final thread that connected him to the realm of the living. The thought was both overwhelming and sad. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his brother in six years, and that thought would always pain him. To have Armoniel here felt like the only means for him to reconnect with Charles. To have the Daemon imprinted on his arm felt like making up for those lost years in the smallest of ways. 

It was, he knew, the very reason Charles had chosen him to bear the Mark. It was Charles’s way of saying he had always been in Charles’s thoughts. 

Betty made a soft sound and Jughead saw that she was weeping gently as she looked on, tears leaking from her eyes, just as his own tears trickled down his cheeks. He squeezed her hand to comfort her and her squeeze back felt like a comfort to him, too. 

At that moment, they donned Sabathiel and Elemiah and touched one of the many sigils drawn in the circle together. 

_ “Camilax enochian.” _

It was an invocation to translate everything they said in Enochian. It was the language of their kind, and if they were to speak plainly, they needed to speak in the Daemon’s tongue, and they needed to be Daemons themselves. 

As the sigil activated, Jughead found himself drawn through a spectral tunnel, spinning through winding dimensions and seeing, along the way, every memory he shared with Betty, from the moment they met, to where they were now, sitting in this circle and staring at Charles’s Daemon. 

When he returned in the moment, he felt different. _ Whole. _

Armoniel bobbed his head, peering at them from side to side. “Your blood ties you to Charles Alistair Cooper, and because of this, it is my duty to serve you one final time. What do you ask of me?”

“We have been given a task, Armoniel.” Their voice was one but not alone, and when they looked at themselves there was no trace of Jughead and Betty, only a Daemon that was neither Elemiah or Sabathiel. 

This was their Daemon before their souls were split in two. 

Before they were bound, they were one. 

“We need you to tell us what caused Charles’s ex-communication.”

Armoniel shifted his serpentine body, his scales rippling slowly as his body wound into himself. “My Kinman expected you to ask.”

Their consciousness felt both grief and pain. So Charles _ did _ leave a message for them. Charles _ did _ want to tell them something, and to be in this place, this realm where they were _ not _in the realm of the living and the provisions of Charles’s ex-communication could not be broken. It was a dimensional loophole, and for a moment, they wanted to laugh at his cleverness, but this was too important to waste time on any sort of pleasantry. 

“And do you have an answer?”

Armoniel’s reptilian blink clicked in the silence. “He dared not leave too intricate a tale. As clever as this scheme is, the risks are all too real. To tell you too much may subject you still to the rules binding Charles to silence, even after his death. He could not risk your excommunication because he told you too much. Should you be forsaken because of his carelessness, he might well return a Wraith, doomed to suffering and ultimate destruction.”

They understood Charles’s caution and did not wish him to return a Wraith. “What, then, could you tell us?”

“I can point the way. There is a document hidden in Charles’s room. An old, aged, and untouched depiction of an institution’s bones, the foundations of power ill-gained. Find it, and Charles trusts that you will know what to do. That is all I can tell you.”

A light began to manifest behind Armoniel, not unlike the ones that appeared behind souls that wished to depart the living realm, and they were beset by panic. 

“Wait! That can’t be all! It isn’t enough!”

An unlikely smile spread on Armoniel’s face. “It will have to be.”

As the light took Armoniel, they felt themselves torn in half, and Jughead was once again being drawn through that winding tunnel, but backwards, and strangely, he did not want to be separated from his other half. He reached out, wanting to be reunited with her again, but the forces were too great, and there was nothing he could do. 

It was sudden, like breaking through ice and plunging into freezing cold water. He was back in his body. Elemiah returned to his mark and they were surrounded by the gymnasium of Elm once again with Betty beside him. The sigil had stopped glowing; the invocation was complete. There was nothing but the faint slither of chalk particles rising from the floor.

Without need of words, they crashed back into each other’s arms, clinging desperately to one another as Betty cried against his chest and his tears fell into her hair. It was overwhelming to be so touched by the remnant of Charles’s soul while feeling their reunited souls torn asunder.

It was too much, and he felt incredibly stricken with grief. The only thing that could help him rise above that pit was the one other person who could understand, so they held each other for a little while, saying nothing, until it ceased to hurt so much.

***************

Betty always found that the only way to get past the pain was to go through it, and she could only be grateful that she had Jughead by her side, so that she didn’t have to do it alone. 

After their encounter with Armoniel, Betty couldn’t yet find the words to express how she felt. Jughead did not say much, either. Only that he dried her tears with the gentle swipe of his thumb and she kissed the inside of his palm for it. As he smiled down at her in understanding, he said, “We must search Charles’s room.”

They would speak of their emotions later. For now, they had work to do. 

Betty and Jughead searched his room like seasoned sleuths, looking into every drawer, nook, and cranny. Every loose board and hidden corner. And when they could find nothing, Jughead wondered if it hadn’t gotten thrown away when Charles’s things were cleared out.

Betty shook her head. The Charles she knew was never so careless. “Charles never would have left it just anywhere it might get accidentally thrown out. He hid it somewhere and we should be able to find it.”

Jughead sighed and sat on the bed. “In order to find it, we need to think like Charles, and who knew Charles better than we did?”

He laid himself on Charles’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Like you said, he never left anything to chance, and you’re right. It has to be somewhere it couldn’t get thrown out. We’ve checked the floorboards, under the rug, looked for hidden panels—“

Betty shook her head. “Charles would have never picked a random hiding spot. It has to be someplace we would be able to find it.”

Jughead kept staring at the ceiling and after a while he sat up. “There are three things of his in this room that hadn’t been moved out—three things he _ knew _wouldn’t be taken out.”

Charles’ room had been cleared of his personal effects--had been since two weeks after his funeral. Alice’s grieving regimen demanded it, and only the most functional of items remained--Charles’s clock, because time still needed to be told, his rifle, because the wall mounts fitted for it would be odd without its weapon, and a painting of Stonewall over his writing desk, because the bullet hole on the wall likely hadn’t been repaired and the painting covered it. For Alice to have left the bullethole unrepaired was a marvel, but Betty knew that for her mother, this was perhaps the most unlikely memento for her deceased son--an indelible mark left upon their lives, and hidden just well enough that Alice would permit it. 

They turned their sights on the painting, and without a pause, Betty went to take it down. She was a little disappointed to find that there was no hidden cavern there that Charles had secretly dug out. There was nothing but the unrepaired bullet hole, the cracking on the masonry, and chipped paint. 

She sighed, looking at Jughead with a disappointed frown and then a soft laugh. “Well, there you have it. Proof that my mother is capable of sentimental thought.”

But Jughead was not staring at the wall. He was staring at the painting in her hand, or more accurately, he was staring at the back of it. 

Betty turned the painting over, and tucked into the back of the framing was the strangest backing board she had ever seen.

Pictures were commonly backed with a plain material, with no scribbles or patterns, except maybe for the framer’s professional seal.

This was not that. This looked intricate, and not at all properly fused to the frame, though it was secured somehow, like it was clipped between the frame and the original backing board.

Betty placed the frame painting side down on Charles’s bed and scrabbled the edges. “How do we undo this thing?”

“We pry it loose.” Jughead took something from his back pocket and he flipped it expertly to reveal it’s blade.

Betty bit her lip at the sight of his old gang knife and how he handled it. She could not help but imagine the sharp end of the blade cutting through the ties of her corset and his long, elegant fingers strumming them free. 

His eyebrow arched as her mind wandered to more explicit thoughts, and she realized that he could very well be seeing what she was thinking. While her cheeks grew hot in mild chagrin, she did not turn away from him, and she shrugged, unapologetic.

_ Is it wrong to want you? _

He said nothing, but the ghost of a smile tilted his lips, fading as he used the tip of his knife to loosen the frame, and with careful tugs slid the entire backing board off without damaging the document.

“Excellent precision,” Betty gushed, taking the board and delicately peeling the cover off.

It was a folded document, and she slowly unfurled it over the bed top. 

The paper was old—as Armoniel said, aged, but the print was well preserved. She had no particular knowledge about architecture and construction, but she knew enough to recognize it.

She splayed her fingers over the document. “This is a layout. Or a floor plan of some sorts. A-a blueprint!”

“An institution’s bones.”

She nodded, unfolding another corner of it. “There should be an inscription of who drew them or even what this structure may be.”

She looked to the corner for the information and saw that it was printed in Enochian. 

_ “Naz c orri,” _she read out loud. “Pillar of Stone?”

Recognition fell upon Jughead’s expression. “The Menhir. These are the plans for the Menhir.”

Betty stared at it, puzzling out what it could mean. Armoniel had called it the foundations of power ill-gained. 

If Armoniel meant what he said, then there was something about the Menhir that Charles might have found out--something terrible, and he was silenced for it.

***************

Betty closed the lid on her small trunk, finished with her packing for their trip back to New Kin in the morning.

The blueprint was put safely in a canister, rolled neatly to keep it from creasing any further in their luggage. 

With her clothing for the morning hung up and ready for use, she donned one of her older nightgowns from her closet. It was ankle length, and it was made of a soft and plain material, no lace or fuss. It was a light summer gown, perfect for the moderate temperatures of the evening.

As she sat in front of her dresser, brush running through her glossy hair, she remembered their sojourn into the spectral realm. Their encounter with Armoniel, however brief, had been so unexpectedly poignant, even knowing that they would be communicating with him the way ordinary Peace Dealers cannot. 

Daemons, as a species, weren’t emotive. Their function was to protect their Kinsman from harm and counsel them with impartial facts. They offered no comfort or company, but they were able when needed, which was why it was strange to be so affected by Armoniel. There was nothing at all about him that reminded them of Charles, except for the message he had delivered. And yet it did feel like the last shred of their brother’s essence. That last thing that tied his soul to _ them, _and letting go always did hurt, no matter what. 

The Mark stayed with Jughead even after Armoniel’s passing, and Betty thought that only right. He had missed so much of Charles when he left for New Kin, and having Armoniel’s likeness was a reminder that Charles always had Jughead in his thoughts. 

It was consistent, anyway, with Jughead being Charles’s heir. 

She set down her brush, staring at the intricate silverwork on the back of it. She remembered being one soul with him, how utterly whole she felt, and when split apart, it was like being separated by forces beyond their power to overcome--like watching him leave on that train platform, never knowing when she’d see him again. 

Poets described soulmates and destinies as something romantic—one soul torn in two, forever searching for its other half, but it didn’t feel romantic. It felt tragic.

There was a desperate need to recreate that sense of belonging and completeness with him, to be with him all the time, and just as she was making her way to her door, there was a knock on it, and she knew who it was.

Jughead didn’t need to speak a single word when she opened the door to let him in. His hand immediately cupped the back of her neck to engage her in an intense, tangling kiss, and she did not resist it in the slightest. His mouth was demanding, stealing her breath from her body.

The slamming of her door was the only evidence of their immediate privacy, but she was too focused on the feel of him and the hunger of his kiss to care about anything else. 

His other arm wrapped around her body, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the evidence of his desire through his trousers. Her core ached in response, wanting him to be within her this very instant. This was not the slow and careful climb of last night. They needed one another with urgency, and Betty had no reason to change the pace. 

She undid his trousers quickly as he peeled off his blouse.

“Forgive me my haste,” he murmured against her mouth, stealing kisses while he helped her shed the rest of his clothing. “But I want you with unbearable desperation.”

“There is no need to apologize,” she breathed, catching his mouth with hers and stroking him taught with the caress of her hand. He groaned at her touch and she met his helpless gaze with a look of pure wanton desire.“I am wearing absolutely nothing under my sleep gown.”

This seemed to ignite his fervor to blazing, lifting her sleep gown off her body and dropping it to the floor. His lips fell upon the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sucking and tasting that patch of skin. 

“Your body leaves me breathless each time,” he whispered against her throat as he hitched her into his arms to wrap her thighs around his trim waist. 

She never realized how strong he was until then, but it shouldn’t have been a surprise. He had displayed the same strength when he hauled her over the edge of a boat by her ankles and knocked out opponents with a single swing of his fist. 

When her back met the wall with a breathtaking thud, she found that she wanted that forceful desire from him. “My lord,” she gasped, intent on expressing her desire for more, but he had entered her, and the wonderful sensations left her speechless.

His gentle strokes were punctuated by their combined soft moans, and it felt good, but she needed him to be less delicate. She wanted the hard bump of the wall on her back, she wanted his hips to crash against hers, and she wanted to see the life-giving veins on his neck and the muscles on his shoulders go taught with the effort of it. 

She kissed him with deep longing, dragged his bottom lip between her teeth as she felt the careful glide of his push and pull. But she cupped his face in her hands and looked him in the eyes, saying, “Harder, my lord. I want you to ravish me against this wall.”

“Oh, Elizabeth.” His fingers dug painfully in her thighs and his thrusts gained tempo and force. 

She moaned in approval, her voice taking on the rhythm set by his hips. 

She stopped thinking, dedicating what little of her wits remained to the quieting of her cries, lest they rose to an uncontrollable volume. Her desperate encouragement had him bracing her with one hand cupping her thigh and the other flat against the wall, and his hungry kisses had her gasping into his mouth. 

The desire coalescing between them rose up her body and even as she willed herself to prolong this wanton dance, she was bathed in bliding ecstasy. She surrendered to it, her body quaking between him and her bedroom wall. 

As she descended from her orgasm, she found herself on her bed, limp with the warmth of her afterglow. 

“You are beautiful when you come undone,” he said as he joined her on the bed, his knee between her legs. 

She could not help but give a soft purr as she watched him cut a gash in his hand with her knife, administering the sigil that would protect her, and then giving her the knife for her turn. 

When they were both properly marked and invoked, he threaded his finger through hers, cut palm over cut palm, and he healed them both as he kissed her. She felt him slip inside her, his cadence immediately gaining rhythm with the joining of their bodies. 

The soft whisper of his praise in her ear, the deep groans rising from his throat, and the heavy press of his body between her thighs sent pleasant shockwaves through her. She could feel the muscles of his back ripple where her hand touched the space between his shoulder blades, she gradually, she felt the sweat breaking through his hot skin. 

His gaze never left her face as he ravished her, and she could see that his eyes were completely gone of their brilliant blues, now black as the silky ink of his hair.

He kissed her lips, speaking of how deeply his desires had affected him all evening, whispering his need to fill her when her fantasies carried across the aether to his mind. 

The thought that he had seen her wanton thoughts, knew how she craved his dominance, had her coming apart beneath him. Her wail of climax gained volume even through her efforts to keep quiet. 

And as he moved to complete her, she found him watching her in her ecstasy, sheer pride of his accomplishments tilting the corner of his lip upward, until moments later, his eyes fluttered closed and the thrust of his hips lost its steady beat. The hard push of his body, the falling of his head between his shoulders, and the long, drawn out groan of her name from his lips evidenced his own completion. 

When he thrust his last, the weight of his body settled upon her as they caught their breaths together. 

They took a moment to come down from what felt like a relentlessly passionate climb, and when they descended from that high, they saw to themselves before slipping into the covers of Betty’s bed. 

His eyes were half-apologetic as he threaded her hair between his fingers. “I so desperately wanted you, Betty. We shall enjoy one another at a more leisurely pace, later, I promise.”

She smiled with sleepy satisfaction. She adored him for sharing his plans with her. “And what, pray tell, made you think I did not need you just as urgently, my lord?”

He grinned, an uncharacteristic blush painting his cheeks. “Nothing, I suppose. I would have been… gentler if you asked.” He touched her shoulder lightly and she looked, finding evidence of his kisses.

She hummed, pressing her lips to his. “And you will be gentler later, you say? Does that mean you’ll stay the rest of the night?”

He rubbed his nose lightly against hers. “Did you think I would waste this glorious privacy?” 

A soft giggle escaped her, and truly, Jughead was the only man who can make her do so. “Throwing prudence to the wind, I see.“

His finger was tracing nonsensical lines against her skin, and she felt him trace over the slope of her breast. “I think it’s a little too late for prudence.”

She grinned at the liberties she was glad he was taking. ”I suppose you’re right. But what if mother—“

“Oh, please. What is the worst she can do?”

“She laced my father’s cookies with arsenic, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Jughead scoffed. “Alice won’t kill me. She won’t even dare throw me out of this room. I am Master of--”

“--the House, I _ know.” _

_ “Her _words.”

She rolled her eyes. “I thought you didn’t like being called that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m beginning to grow fond of it if it means I get to make the rules.”

“Rules.” She said this quietly, perhaps carefully. “And what rules do we follow, Master Jones? When it comes to you and I at work, perhaps?”

“You must keep your hands to yourself while we are at work.”

She pinched his arm, laughing. “I shall try to restrain myself.”

He sighed dramatically and draped her leg over his hips. “You are incorrigible.”

“Oh, and of course it’s all my fault.”

“Completely.” He nuzzled her neck. “Perhaps you ought to tell your friend _ Reggie _to piss off. You can tell Andrews, too, while you’re at it.”

The feel of his lips against her skin made her eyes close and she hummed with contentment. “Stop being so jealous of him. Really, Juggie. It doesn’t become you.”

He made a huffing sound, but he did not deny it. “We should introduce him to Veronica. They may, in fact, be good for each other. Maybe then she’d pay less attention to that gal sneaker, Andrews.”

It amused her that he’d noticed Archie’s wayward eyes, and that his plans to thwart Reggie’s advances was to redirect his attentions to another woman. 

“We should be mindful of our actions at work,” she said, tracing the gentle contour of muscle along his arm. “Give Cheryl or anyone else no reason to doubt that we can be effective partners, even so attached.”

His light scowl, followed by a yawn, was making her feel even drowsier. “We have been nothing but professional and we shall continue to be so. It will be just as it always was.”

Betty recounted the times she had caught him watching her face too intensely and the one time Reggie had caught them holding hands; that was before they consummated their relationship. She wondered how they’d fare, now, when his close proximity was enough to remind her of how their naked bodies moved in perfect tandem, making her thoughts so easily distracted by something so mundane as him holding a knife or the casual way he bit his lip when he was lost in thought. 

Was this just how things would be from now on? Was this a function of the bond or was this just desire? 

Desire, likely. 

The bond certainly offered other experiences to ponder on. 

“What did it feel like, for you, when we were speaking to Armoniel?” she asked, just as his eyes began to flutter closed. 

She could feel his hand run tenderly over the back of her thigh. “Like I was whole. You make me whole, Betty.”

She touched his face and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was a little frightening, she realized. If they were ever separated for reasons beyond their control--circumstance, love, or death, would the pain end her? Would she survive it? 

She didn’t know the answer and she didn’t care to find out. 

He drifted off to sleep, and she followed, soon after. 

tbc


	17. Occidendum Tabula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to thank you all very much for your support of this fic. I cannot express how grateful I am each time I find your comments and it keeps me writing on. Our lives have been difficult of late, some harder than others, and I am grateful that we all have this place to go to, but I think this fandom saves me, truly, from many things, and I honestly would not know what to do without it. 
> 
> Secondly, this fandom has far outgrown what I know of the show and it’s a beautiful thing. That’s all because of you all.
> 
> Once again, thank you, and I hope to get to all your comments, eventually.

For Jughead, returning to New Kin felt like stepping back in an old world as a changed man.

New Kin remained as it was: modern, powerful, dynamic, arrogant, and diverse. The shift had happened within him, his life redirected, and with it, the view had grown vastly different.

Since he began this journey unearthing his brother’s secrets, they’d stumbled on various clues that propelled their impulse to dig deeper, but it was in Elm they confirmed that Charles knew something that had gotten him killed, and that the blueprint would put them on the path towards the answers they sought. 

Until this shift, the darkness of the Kin was hypothetical, perhaps even philosophical, but to know now that it lurked for certain, that there were terrible truths worth killing for, was--to a weaker constitution, nearly earth-shattering, but for one such as Jughead who had survived the mean streets of the Southside, this was merely disappointing. For a moment in time, he might have expected better of the Kin.

A lapse, he realized, in his well-honed cynicism, the renewal of which came just in time. 

They were yet to determine what their next steps would be, but if no one suspected what they knew, they had time. Still, he recognized that caution was of the utmost necessity.

There were three known players in the mystery, but likely more they weren’t even aware of. 

Gladys was yet to make her move. She had warned Betty to stay away from Charles’s secrets, and while it was easy to suppose that she was doing it for her son, Jughead believed she hadn’t yet revealed her hand. There was more to it, and he needed to be strategic about learning more from his mother. 

Guildswoman Burble was the other known variable. She was investigating, like they were, but to what end? Why was she trying to find answers? Did she pose as a threat to them? She clearly did not know they were Bound, or else she might have given them Charles’s Daemon without hesitation for the express purpose of learning the clues he left behind. It was yet to be determined whose side she was on, and until then, they were going to keep their distance from her. 

The third player, or players, as the case may be, were Hal Cooper’s secret relatives. 

Jughead and Betty did not have a lot of time to confront Alice about the knowledge the morning they left Riverdale. Between hurrying to rouse themselves from bed, dressing for the trip, and rushing to the train station, the only thing they managed to get out of Alice was her stubborn insistence that Hal’s relatives were not significant to Betty’s existence. 

Nevertheless, Alice did promise Betty that she would send documentation about this reveal. “Heaven knows, you go traipsing around New Kin demanding recognition without proof. The ridicule could be damaging.”

Betty awaited that package with the same thrill other ladies awaited their Parisian dresses coming in the mail. She’d sooner pawn precious Chantilly lace for valuable Information. 

One of her many delightful qualities.

His relationship with Betty had certainly developed. They were never lacking passion, but their leap into the intensely physical still had him spinning, in ways unspeakable in polite society. It was also overwhelming, more so because their bond was knitting them tight, pulling them ever closer, and he has begun to wonder if he could ever exist without her. 

This was, he hoped, navigable, or merely a period of transition. Perhaps it was just the newness of it, of this awareness of what their bodies can do to one another, that had him so distracted. Once his desire for her settled down, he might be depended on to think beyond her. 

Maybe if they gave into their urges on a regular basis it would cease to be an unbearable craving? Or perhaps it was the opposite. Perhaps they needed to step back and restrain themselves—to learn discipline.

Of course, one rather sticky look from Betty and the immediate reaction in his trousers had him deciding that last thought was a terrible idea.

They would have to see. 

In the meantime, they must exist in the workplace without acknowledging their relationship, and Reggie would still give her longing looks, while other less-precious admirers might prove to be more flirtatious, and Jughead would just have to scowl and bear it, likely with sarcasm. 

Their arrival in the Jones home was greeted by Jellybean waving an envelope with the Guild’s official seal. “It came in this morning’s post!” 

Jughead eyed his sister with a teasing arch of his eyebrow. “And you are in possession of it because--?”

“I kept it safe for Betty,” she declared without a hint of remorse, plopping the missive into Betty’s gloved hands. 

“Welcome back, son, Betty.” FP greeted them from behind Jellybean. His easy smile was warm and loving, a far cry from his days of drunkenness and despair. Having fought his own beast, Jughead grew to appreciate the soberness of his father everyday. 

“It’s good to be home,” Jughead said, helping Betty out of her light frock. 

Her look of appreciation conjured a small smile from his lips, which Kevin caught and eyed him for as he took the frock from Jughead’s hands.

“I trust your visit went well,” FP continued.

Jughead thought that the mother of all understatements, but details would be inappropriate, at best. “Yes, quite.”

FP grinned. “Good! We were sent some treats this afternoon, from none other than Ms. Cheryl Blossom. The note said they’re for Betty, meant to share with all of us.”

FP led them to the receiving room. There was tea and a beautifully decorated cake, no doubt maple flavored. 

“Oh, how lovely of her!” Betty said, grabbing Jughead’s hand without a care and pulling him to the table. “Let us have some, immediately.”

She began spreading out the plates and Jughead helped. 

“How is your mother, Betty?” FP asked.

“Tenacious.”

“Well, she hasn’t changed a bit, has she?”

Betty exchanged tired looks with Jughead as she began putting slices of cake on the plates. “I gather not.”

Jellybean growled in clear frustration. “Oh, what must a lady do to know the contents of that letter? I didn’t greet you at the door to listen to you all exchange pleasantries!”

FP scowled. “Forsythia Perenelle Jones!”

Jughead had to look away to keep from laughing, for there was nothing Jellybean hated more than her birth name. 

“Father, please! I and all the girls need to know if Betty made it into the Guild. There’s a betting pool, you see.”

“Betting pool!” Jughead cried. “Who in their right mind would bet against her?”

Jellybean didn’t appear chagrined in the least. “There are some who don’t think the Guild has the gumption to employ her.”

“Oh? And what do you think?” Betty asked as she held up the envelope.

“I thought you so impressive that the Guild wouldn’t think twice. Now come on!”

Betty laughed and undid the seal, unfolding the note and reading its contents for a few seconds before she began to read out loud. “The New Kin Guild is hereby pleased to invite Ms. Elizabeth Cooper among its ranks as an esteemed Peace Dealer, with a rank of Junior, First Class…”

Jellybean gave a whoop throwing a celebratory arm over her father’s shoulder and FP grinned at both his daughter’s antics and Betty’s good news.

Jughead wasn’t surprised by the acceptance, but he was pleasantly surprised by the awarded rank. “First class! Well, you have outdone yourself, Betty.”

“What does that mean, junior first class?” 

“It means you may already outrank some of your peers. It’s the highest rank to award new inductees on the job—one rank below Third Level Senior, which allows you the opportunity to specialize.” He realized that none of these words made much sense to her and he could tell by the laughter in her eyes that this was all unimportant at the moment, but he was very proud of her accomplishments. 

Betty vowed that Cheryl would be impressed and she delivered on her promise convincingly, for here was the proof of her performance. 

He imagined that the only other recruit to match her was Munroe Moore, who had turned in an impressive performance, himself. 

“I think I shall like outranking other people,” Betty said, resolutely. “Does that mean they must do as I say?”

FP laughed. “When the situation requires it, yes.”

“And what’s your rank, Jughead?” she asked, naturally. 

“First Level Senior,” he replied, winking.

She affected an impressed nod. “Oh, I see. I suppose that means I must do as _ you _say.”

Jughead found that looking away was the only means to prevent his mind from slipping into the gutter. It helped, too, that Jellybean elbowed him roughly and said, “Yes, good luck telling her what to do, brother.”

Sometimes he wondered if Jellybean was really this innocent or she was pretending to be for her own, dastardly reasons. 

FP cleared his throat. “Well, as it is, Jughead is eligible for cross department leadership roles, so he can have plenty under his command when out on the field, but I expect, Betty, that you won’t take long to rise up in the ranks, yourself. What an amazing accomplishment, and likely why Ms. Blossom sent the cake. She would have known, of course.”

Kevin brought fresh tea and congratulated Betty on her admittance in the Guild. “Mr. Mason will be glad for this news.”

It was the closest Kevin had ever come to acknowledging his personal relationships to others. 

As the plates and cups were cleared, Jellybean took Betty by the hand and invited her to her lab upstairs to observe her latest experiment. Betty eagerly excused herself and Jughead watched her leave with his sister. 

“So,” FP began as their footsteps faded. “Are you putting in your transfer to Ms. Blossom’s department this week?” 

Jughead had been dreading this conversation. “The request for transfer should be at your desk by Monday. Ms. Blossom drew the papers long before this and had me sign them, as insurance. She would have submitted them for me the moment she can put down that Betty has been accepted into the Guild.”

FP sighed and nodded. “You told me of the terms of this agreement and I knew it would be challenging to have my own son leave my department, but better this than an inquest on that incident in the factory.”

“I’m sorry father.”

FP waved his apology away. “I wouldn’t think too much of it. I’ve made the most out of what I’ve been given, which is a generous bounty considering I probably deserved to rot in the clink. Moving to Ms. Blossom’s department will be good for your career. In the meantime, I can hold on to this appointment a few years more, but when I have to let go, you should think about taking it for yourself, perhaps try for an Associate Guardianship soon to prepare you for it.”

Jughead made a sound. “I don’t care to be bound to a desk, father. Not anytime soon, and should I aspire to be an Associate anything, it will be done my way, defined by practice and action, not solely by pushing papers along and playing politics with higher leadership.”

FP scoffed and shook his head. “There will come a time when you must think about the well-being of your own family, when being at the desk ensures that you’ll come home to them at night.”

A chuckle bubbled up his throat. “My own family, is it?”

FP gestured lightly towards the direction Jellybean and Betty took. “We do things for the people we love. Who knows? Perhaps Betty will find administration more riveting sooner than you will. Perhaps it is she who ensures that your children will have a parent to come home to.”

He supposed there was no escaping the futures their parents were so certain would happen. 

FP seemed annoyed by his slow response. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not telling you to marry. I am not your mother. I am merely explaining that our priorities change through the years. For me it’s to see my children successful. I do not need recognition or title. If your mother throws me out of this house tomorrow, it could not be worse than the way you used to pluck me out of the soiled ditch I fell into, drunk as a poet on payday.” 

It occurred to Jughead that perhaps FP may not care about his career as much as Jughead did. “Father, are you telling me that Ms. Blossom could have gotten you removed from office and it would not have mattered that much to you?”

FP shrugged. “Perhaps not? I care because of the shame such an expulsion would visit on your mother. I care because you and Jellybean would feel badly about it. But if it were just me--”

“Betty put in an application to the Guild for you!”

FP grimaced. “Oh, don’t give me that. Betty would have put in an application, one way or another, and rightfully so. She belongs in that Guild. She should be paid and recognized for her talents. If not for me, she would’ve done it for you. In fact, I believe her intuitive enough to know that my staying meant more to you than it did to me.” 

This was altogether a surprise that Jughead did not know what to do with. “But you are good at this, father. You ought to be proud of how far you’ve come!”

“Ah, son.” He seemed tired and he fell back on his seat as he stared out of the large bay windows. “I only ever accomplished anything for the good of the people I care about. I am not complaining. I am glad that I managed to remove myself from that pattern of failure when we lived in Riverdale, but what I am now is not a result of wanting to be so for myself. I did it for this family and that is all. If I didn’t have you and Jellybean to think of, I would be on a boat, sailing to far off lands without a care in the world.”

Jughead wondered about his father a lot, his motivations and his failures. He never brought it up for discussion because he was afraid it would be too sensitive a subject matter, but to hear these things now, Jughead wished he’d been more forthcoming. “Is that what you always wanted to be? An adventurer?”

FP laughed with a lopsided grin. “Oh, nothing so noble. I don’t think I ever properly formed any ambition. I did not know what I wanted to be. I think I just like escaping. Being somewhere else. If I were a sailor, I can ruin my life at the port of Tortuga and start anew on the docks of Madrid.”

As much as Jughead hated to admit it, that sounded more like his father. 

“This life that I am in right now is what I keep for this family’s sake. I was selfish for a long time, but ‘selfish’ is not what I want to be, and your mother bringing us here gave me the means to start fresh and do better. This life is my Madrid. So, I will honor what Betty did for me and keep this job for as long as the Guild will have me, but if at some point, they think I am no longer deserving of the job--don’t fight for me. You can tell Toni that, too.”

It made sense the way FP described it, but Jughead wondered what FP would be like without the respectability of the Guardianship to keep him steady. “And then, what? Will you fall back to drinking and leading a gang?”

“Hardly. Your mother would have me shot before I ruined her ambitions at the Ealdorman’s office. I’ll think of something--preferably with a lot of travel in it. Perhaps you need me to see to the businesses that Charles left behind. I’d be happy to administer--or make sure his partners aren’t cheating you out of the profits.”

“Oh, is that what you’d be happy about? To administer the business and not Mrs. Cooper at Elm?” Far be it that he’d ever seem the least bit approving of his father and infidelity, but he can’t imagine the weight of history between Mrs. Cooper and FP. They were involved enough to have a child, and whether that was accidental, Jughead didn’t care to know, but given they were both Kin and there were spectral means to prevent such a thing, Jughead could only suspect that Charles only became an “accident” when the reality of it took hold.

“Boy, you watch your mouth. I’m lucky your mother hasn’t slit my throat about that.”

“You think mother is dangerous? Clearly there are still some things you don’t know about Mrs. Cooper.”

“Oh?” 

Jughead nodded. “Arsenic laced tea cakes.”

FP made a face but did not ask for details. “Well, it’s not something I need to worry about for myself. You, on the other hand…”

As much of a cautionary tale Alice’s secrets were, Jughead had reason to believe that he was safe from Alice’s murderous streak. After all, even with Hal Cooper’s supposed psychosis, she couldn’t go through with it. 

Jughead also suspected that Alice could be pushed to do terrible things to protect her daughter, an extreme that Jughead could not exactly fault her for. 

That aside, the idyllic country life in Elm was excellent for short periods, meddling mothers notwithstanding, but New Kin was where they belonged right now. What secrets it held still that would pose as challenges to him and to Betty, good or ill, needed to be uncovered. Fortunately, they both valued truth above all. 

*******************

There were a few days yet before the induction ceremony, but Betty and all the other inductees were being officially placed in Guildsman Hall as preparations for the ceremony were being made.

The human resources department brought forth what felt like a thick ream of documentation designed to trick them into signing their souls into service while also protecting the Guild from too much liability. 

“To be fair,” the human resources manager told Betty. “The package is generous. Health and hospitalization is fully shouldered by the Guild--we are one of the few establishments that offer such a benefit! And our retirement provisions, particularly if you are maimed and/or institutionalized for your labors, is robust. Additionally, the fringe benefits are quite delightful.”

Betty couldn’t quite put her finger on what she should be sarcastic about in the discussion of these matters across the human resources table, but it settled in her chest like a heartburn as she simmered in bemused outrage. 

She had to admit that the salary was considerable, and she had a spirited negotiation with Cheryl on the amount when she was first presented with it. They came to an amicable agreement two hours later, and when they had shook hands on it, Jughead came by to escort her to their new office. 

Betty’s name was stenciled right beside Jughead’s on their office door: “E. Cooper & F.P. Jones III”, which made Betty beam, wishing she could take a photograph. 

When Jughead held open the door, she found that his things from his previous office had been moved in with boxes, and her desk was empty, as of yet, but ready for her use. She didn’t quite know what things she needed for the workplace, having never kept an office before, but she wasn’t fussed. It would be easy enough to determine once official work with the Guild began. 

As she sat behind her desk, Jughead watched her take in her new workspace with an amused smirk. 

“Comfortable?” he asked. 

It was fairly accommodating. It wasn’t a large office, by any means, and having two desks did make it a shade tighter, but Betty didn’t think they would be spending a lot of time here. It was a place for them to regroup, file reports, and keep their weapons. It would do, and she liked it well enough to nod in response to Jughead’s question, but what she did notice was that apart from the view out the window, the layout was almost an exact replica of his previous placement 

“The question should be asked of you,” she countered. “What feelings do I invoke sitting on this chair?”

A smirk formed on his lips, but she could see the faintest roll of eyes. As much as he’d revealed what occurred with his partner and the trouble his own guilt had caused him, he had never brought it up again. 

Betty always knew Jughead to keep his feelings to himself, and that letting anyone in once was sometimes his way of ensuring it would never be spoken of again. 

“Pride,” he replied. “Happiness. Desire.”

He said that last word in a half-teasing low tone, but she wasn’t to be distracted. 

“I apologize,” she said, gently. “I was not direct. What thoughts run through your mind as I sit in the chair Trevor used to occupy?”

The teasing smile did not disappear, but it did dim, and he shook his head and looked elsewhere for a moment before catching her gaze again. “It is not the same chair, nor is it the same room. You did not take Trevor’s place, Betty. You are your own woman and you are my partner, in Peace Dealing, in life, and beyond.”

His words meant the world to her, but that wasn’t what she asked of him, still. “I appreciate that sentiment, but does it hurt you to see me in this chair?”

He sighed and the smile was gone. “It is strange, Betty. That is all. Now I came here to show you something, just for us.”

Betty supposed she expected him to act this way. She was glad she asked, however, and there were some ways she could help to paint a different picture. 

“I was inspired by this when I saw it, as there wasn’t one in the last office,” he continued, fishing something from inside his coat. He took out a key and went to their largest wall, where there were wooden folding shutters. He unlocked them and they opened to a concealed board, part cork and part chalkboard. It was marked with initials, coded images, old clippings, pins, and yarn, much like a spider’s web, all stemming from the initials CAC at the top. 

There were question marks, too, one pinned over a picture of Stonewall--to signify where they found the blueprints, and one over HC, Hal Cooper, perhaps to signify the mystery of his whereabouts. Or more likely to signify his unknown relatives. 

Everything they knew about the entire mystery of Charle’s ex-communication and death was coded on this board, and Betty was surprised by how it gave her a sense of order and strength. For the first time, she could think about this case and not feel the urge to cry. 

“I call it the _ Occidendum Tabula,” _Jughead said. 

Betty didn’t read or speak latin on a regular basis, but Charles had taught some of it so they could understand old texts that frequently came up in their studies. “The Murder Board?”

Jughead shrugged. “Hence the latin. It sounded more reverent that way.”

Betty touched the question mark over a picture of a horse pointed at Charles. _ Who killed him? _

This was good, having the ability to look at things with objectivity and logic, and she could not help but cast him a look of gratitude and, oddly, for this situation, love. “It is exactly what we need, Jughead. You are brilliant.”

He tapped the question mark for the blueprint. “I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit and how Armoniel described it.”

She nodded, remembering the words by heart. “An old, aged, and untouched depiction of an institution’s bones; the foundations of power ill-gained.”

“What struck me was the word untouched. What does it mean?”

Betty gave it a moment’s thought. “That the blueprint had been hidden all this time, unmoved and untouched?”

Jughead shook his head. “I thought that, at first, but my thoughts of it would not quiet. What other words do we use for ‘untouched’?”

Betty smirked. “Virgin. Pure.”

The humor was not lost on him, his eyes sparking with mirth. “Yes, and in some cases, un_ altered. _The blueprints we found are the original blueprints, and since Armoniel pointed that out specifically, it may be reasonable to assume that there are blueprints in existence that have been altered. Those blueprints might even be considered official.”

“Juggie, if we find where the alteration is--”

“We may uncover its secrets.”

She could not help but feel the mix of excitement and trepidation that bubbled in her chest. “And isn’t it convenient that we do happen to know someone who works at the Menhir who may have access to these blueprints?”

Jughead nodded. “I’m sure Jellybean would be kind enough to tell us what could inspire Dr. Curdle to be more forthcoming about assisting us.”

“Oh, you Joneses. Getting your little sisters in trouble since 1855.”

He chuckled as he put out his hands. “Neither Charles nor I could claim to be so bold as to _ get _our sisters in trouble, especially when you are both so adept at finding trouble all your own.”

She could find no fault in what he said. “How much shall we tell Jellybean?”

He shrugged. “Depends on how elaborate her recommendations are.”

*******************

Jellybean scoffed, carefully coiling a copper wire around a screwhead. “Pay him. Dr. Curdle would love to take a bribe—he’ll think it exciting.”

Betty exchanged downturned smiles with Jughead at the exact same time. This was almost unnervingly uncomplicated.

Jellybean squinted at them. “Did you think he would send you on some quest to recover a stolen artifact in the bush plains of Africa?”

“Of course not,” Jughead replied. “But we’re not used to things being so—simple. Betty, what do you think? He’s up to something, isn’t he?”

“Gadsbudlikins, Jughead,” Jellybean groused. “Not everyone is embroiled in a conspiracy.”

If Betty did not know any better, she might have considered Jughead’s question, but her very brief conversation with Dr. Curdle was telling in so many ways. That said, she did not know everything about the strange engineer and it would be best if they dealt with him directly. “Do you know where we could catch him--well, away from his place of work?”

Jellybean began turning the crank on her miniature generator. “Oh, that’s easy. His work at the Menhir finishes in the early afternoon, so he spends the rest of the day at his father’s mortuary, helping with the preparation of their clients, and by clients, I mean--”

“We know what it means, Jellybean,” Jughead interrupted. 

“Fair warning, Dr. Curdle gets in a peculiar mood when he is at the mortuary, almost as if he amplifies his personality ten-fold. I suppose anyone would, working with dead bodies all the time. Every once in a while a spirit comes walking in with a body and Dr. Curdle speaks to the spirits until the Peace Dealer in residence comes to collect it. That likely does not help with his oddness.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Betty said in a light, sing-song tone. “Spirits are just people without their bodies. I should like to see Dr. Curdle in what is perhaps his native habitat. After all, it could be assumed that he had been working longer at his father’s mortuary than he has at the Menhir.”

Jellybean nodded. “You aren’t wrong. Let me know when you’d like to speak to him. I will give him advanced warning, as he likes to tidy up over there when he knows to expect guests.”

In all honesty, Betty thought Dr. Curdle fascinating in his strangeness and it warmed her that Jellybean accepted him for who he was. 

If only for that, she was looking forward to their conversation already.

*******************

With all the fanfare of Peace Dealer trials and the political maneuvering that often drove it, the induction ceremony for its successful recruits was predictably ostentatious. One would think that the successfully initiated were conquering heroes, the way the auditorium was set up to receive them. 

That this was done for no one but Peace Dealers was telling, consistent to what Jughead had explained was the glorification of Peace Dealers in their society. Reapers and the staff from the Room of Realms were never given this sort of attention. Neither are administrators or caretakers. It was almost obscene, Betty thought, but it was not a hill she was willing to die on. 

It was a late afternoon affair that was expected to go well into the evening, and attendees were expected to be in their workwear best. This requirement was not formally stated, but everyone knew that the Ealdorwoman would be in attendance, and all Guildsmen and women were expected to be there. It would be in anyone’s best interest to dress appropriately for spontaneous conversations with high ranking Guild and Imperium officials. 

Betty could not fathom how the Guild could stand to do this every half year, but it appeared that the celebrations that followed the ceremonies were a highlight, with free food and enough drink to give more opportunity to speak to these high ranked officials in a social capacity. This, Jughead explained, made people want to attend, even with the frequency of the proceedings. 

On the day of the induction, Betty stepped out on stage with the other inductees in black trousers with charcoal grey skirt-length coattails. Her matching jaunty hat, though acceptably appropriate, had a nondescript serpent in its ornamentation. 

She listened to the ceremonies as they droned along, observing their audience from where they sat. She and Munroe were recognized for their excellent efforts during the trials, both of them earning Junior First Class, and then giving the rest of the inductees their due as qualified and esteemed Peace Dealers in the Guild. 

As each were called forth for their pins and Peace Dealer kit, applause could be customized for each one by respective family members and friends, and Betty wondered if Jughead can carry the weight of that duty, but as she was summoned to the fore, she found that not only had Cheryl assembled the ladies for a proper round, Jellybean had brought along Dr. Melody Valentine and their team of inventors. There was applause from strangers, too--women, it seemed, and it was loud and ongoing, which made Betty realize just how her acceptance was important for many. FP and Gladys were there too, of course, seated amongst the Guildsmen, and while FP was more enthusiastic in his clapping, Gladys appeared pleased enough. 

_ For show, no doubt, _Betty thought rather uncharitably. 

Guardian Weatherbee was responsible for attaching the pins, and as he focused on adding the pin to her collar, his eyebrow arched and he said, “Congratulations, Ms. Cooper. You have made this institution proud.”

She never thought she’d ever hear Guardian Weatherbee approve of her. 

At the end of the ceremonies, the celebrations ensued, and Betty was immediately surrounded by both familiar and unfamiliar faces. Alice had taught her enough to carry herself with poise in such a situation, but it was not one she cared to bear for very long. 

Thankfully, Veronica somehow managed to push her way to the front with her bouquet of flowers and shower of cheek kisses, which cleared the way for Cheryl, Jughead, and Moose.

Betty could tell that the dynamic between Cheryl and Jughead had shifted. Cheryl was now Jughead’s Guardian, and as such, he showed marked professional respect. There wasn’t a whisper of his sarcasm, and in turn, Cheryl afforded him the corresponding courtesy. 

It was odd, but Betty rather liked the harmony, particularly on occasions such as these, and she knew instinctively that Jughead and Cheryl were this way because others could see. In the presence of the rest of the Guild, they were a united front, with Jughead loyal to Cheryl’s administration, and Cheryl recognizing him as the most senior and most successful Peace Dealer in the department. Betty had no doubt that once the revelries were over, Jughead and Cheryl would carry on as they always have--testing one another’s mettle and patience. 

As for Betty and Jughead’s relationship, Betty could feel the shift between them, as well. 

As she sat beside him amidst the festivities, he kept a perfectly professional distance and demeanor, pleasant, but proper. His hands remained clasped at his back when speaking to their friends and colleagues, unclasping only when he was fetching the wine for the ladies present, shaking someone’s hand, and politely offering assistance to those who might need it. He was the picture of a gentleman, but try as Betty might to keep her thoughts professional in this very professional setting, her imagination required scolding when, for instance, it assigned meaning to the way he looked at her, fantasizing about heated glances and charged touches. 

Being back in the Jones home felt exactly as they expected. In their waking hours, there was always someone turning a corner, always another voice drifting within hearing range, footsteps startling them apart, and while night silenced the house, offering a semblance of privacy, it was true that the slightest sounds carried much farther. 

It was a fact that rooms were closer, walls thinner, and that _ everyone _ in the house were more likely to be up late at night or up at early or ungodly hours to attend to their busy agendas. Either one of them had to be back in their respective rooms by five in the morning, or else risk running into _ someone _if they ventured down the hallway any later. 

Betty never knew the racket their lovemaking caused until they had to quiet themselves with utmost effort. She never realized how desire could motivate creativity when the need was great and privacy was scarce.

She had thought that sexual awakening was defined at the first moment of its rousing—that one's desires were determined forever by your first lover, but it was becoming increasingly clear that it developed and perhaps changed from one person to another. 

She had first learned about desire amidst music and fireworks, silks and scented candles, but her time with Jughead inspired sharp edges and sensual restraints. She never knew she could be drawn to such dark delights, but the little nips of his teeth, the careful but marked pulling of her hair, and the gently dominant “Elizabeth” that slipped from his lips during their moments of passion made her want to bring a spool of rope and see where Jughead would take it.

All of these thoughts, the told herself, were inappropriate in this setting, where their coworkers milled about, when their supervisor was explaining to them how she had monthly conferences with her department, and when the Prime Guildsman’s daughter was telling them that she would very much like to host a dinner at a restaurant for Betty and some of the newly inducted Peace Dealers. “Particularly the ones you consider your friends, Betty.”

Veronica had caught the eye of Archie and his best friends who were several feet away. She raised her glass towards them, and they acknowledged her by raising glasses of their own. 

Cheryl huffed, linking her arm around Toni who had joined them shortly after the conclusion of the ceremonies. “Perhaps you can leave out Mr. Andrews this time. I’m sure he’ll be busy enough ogling other ladies.”

It always surprised Betty, the way Cheryl did not speak in circles.

Moose gave a delighted gasp and nudged Jughead’s arm with his elbow. “Oh, is that the one you call Gal Sneaker, Jones?”

Everyone laughed, but Jughead looked like he wanted to strangle Moose where they stood. Jughead did not like everyone knowing what he felt. 

Veronica chuckled. “Oh, don’t be rude, all of you. He’s amusing and I’m not going to marry him. Besides, his other friends are nice to look at, as well. You know them, Betty. Do you like their company?”

“I like Mantle and Moore’s company exceedingly.”

Cheryl smirked. “Mantle is precious and Moore is smoldering, as the tittering girls over at the Reaper department have told me. Oh, look, they are coming over, Andrews included. Lovely. More _ men _.” She said that last part with dying enthusiasm. 

“Be nice, my darling,” Toni told Cheryl through her accommodating smile.

Veronica welcomed them gushingly as they arrived at the table, congratulating them on their success. Reggie and Munroe were finally introduced and everyone discovered why Betty enjoyed their company. They were charming fellows, and even with Archie’s wandering eyes, it was clear that the three of them sparked each other’s charms. They fed off one another’s jokes and like brothers, they seemed better together. 

It didn’t escape them that Reggie’s attentions were directed at Betty, the most, and that Jughead was not pleased about it. 

If it were any other group of people, Betty might have supposed that no one noticed Jughead and Reggie butting heads, but these ladies and gentlemen happened to be their closest friends, and Betty knew--_ everyone _noticed. 

The tension simmered beneath the surface, and the only thing that kept either Jughead or Reggie from saying anything close to provocative were their professional surroundings, where a spectacle may very well ruin both their careers. 

Thankfully, Prime Guildsman Lodge approached their group, first to greet his daughter and then to introduce the inductees to the other Guildsmen he brought with him.

FP came along, too, with Gladys and Jellybean on his arm, and as their group expanded in number, Betty noted how Jellybean whispered something in Jughead’s ear.

It was close to an hour before their group finally got whittled back down to their original small circle, and it was then Betty noticed Jughead’s restless fidgeting. 

She couldn’t blame him. It was getting late, and the attendees at the hall had thinned. People were already leaving for home, and while a few Guildsmen and women remained, they were poised closer to the exits. 

As soon as the influx of people quieted, Betty leaned closer to Jughead and said, “Is it the polite time to leave yet?”

A look of relief passed over Jughead’s face. “Yes, it is the perfect time to leave.”

Toni smirked upon seeing Jughead’s expression. “Had enough of the proceedings, Jones?”

Jughead scoffed with mild disdain. “Leave me be, Topaz. I have done a fairly commendable job of smiling and nodding politely all evening.”

“Well, you haven’t embarrassed me, that’s for certain,” Cheryl said in a silky tone. “I was sure either you or Mantle were about ready to throw fisticuffs at the slightest turn of phrase.”

Veronica choked on a laugh. “I wasn’t imagining it, then?”

Betty did not know what to say, but Jughead was scowling fiercely at this point. “I don’t suffer fools, Ms. Blossom. You know this.”

Moose tutted. “Oh, he was a perfectly reasonable chap, if a little distracted by Junior First Class, Peace Dealer Cooper over here. But who wouldn’t be distracted in the presence of such greatness?”

Betty always knew Moose to be clever, as he was throwing in a distraction of his own at this very moment. “Oh, please, Mr. Mason. Stop teasing.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and took a final gulp of the wine in her glass. “Perhaps we are all done for the evening. Be gone, then, Jones. Get your beauty rest. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

Veronica said her usual breezy goodbyes to them, air kisses for Betty and stately bows for Jughead, who scowled as Veronica laughed. 

Moose tapped his shoulder with affected gravity. “For what it’s worth, I thought you carried on with such valiant, admirable restraint.”

“Oh, shut it,” Jughead grumbled, to which Moose laughed. 

Betty looped her hand around the arm Jughead offered and they made their way out of the induction hall. The corridors had quieted considerably and very few people were waiting outside the front courtyard. 

“Jellybean said Dr. Curdle would like to meet with us tonight,” Jughead told her. 

Betty gasped, pulling away to cast him a scolding look. What had he been thinking? “Jughead Jones, you should have told me! We could have left earlier!” 

He seemed unbothered, rehooking her hand around his arm. “Gods, no. The evening was for you to enjoy, and the very idea of asking you to leave that for a _ morgue _seemed unnecessarily macabre, especially since Dr. Curdle did not want us to be there earlier than half past eight.”

“It is already nine,” she pouted. “You know I’d much rather investigate than--than be at parties. Besides, that must have been torture for you.”

He chuckled. “Hardly. The event was to celebrate your accomplishments, and what kind of man would I be to swear that I would do anything for you, but retreat when it’s a bloody party?”

It was when he said such things that she grew to appreciate him even more. 

He called a carriage and together, they headed to the Curdle Mortuary. 

***************

The front of the establishment was awash in dark, somber colors, with a black hanging sign in gold lettering. If one peered through its glass windows, there would be a formal reception area with a proper tea table and chairs for guests. They took walk-ins, but an appointment would be preferred.

Curdle Mortuary has been in operation since 1845, established by Dr. Curdle’s grandfather. Betty imagined that as bleak a business it was, it would always be lucrative, especially in a city as populated as New Kin. Even the Kin, who dealt with spirits on a daily basis, needed bodies memorialised and buried. 

As certain as the Kin were about the Otherrealm, death was still a separation, filled with uncertainty. It was a loss, just as painful as sending a loved one off to sea or saying goodbye to them on a platform train. 

Nothing about the other side was demystified by their gifts, because however much Peace Dealers sent spirits into the Otherrealm, not one spirit had ever come back. 

There were tales of those who have tried, but they were always cautionary at best, frightening at their worst. The Kin knew that any attempts to call a soul back from the spirit realm would fail and conclude in horrendous tragedy. 

Jughead touched her arm and she was brought back to the present, “Dr. Curdle asked that we go around the back, if you don’t mind.”

Betty didn’t mind at all. The Curdle Mortuary catered to the rich and middle class, clearly, so this building wasn’t likely to house too many bodies. Most upper class and middle class families wouldn’t leave their dead in a stranger’s morgue. They would have their loved ones remains embalmed and interred in their own homes, but poorer clients often did not have that luxury of space, so they availed of the one the mortuary provided for the time being, paid for by the Burial Club--a pool of funds that poor families across the city contributed to every week for the inevitable funeral expenses that often befell them. 

Burial Clubs made it possible for poor families to have a proper funeral. Otherwise, the bodies of their loved ones might suffer the indignities that came with the city morgue, which was likely not dissimilar to the Southside coroner’s, with its murdered and/or discarded corpses, public waiting morgues, and its infestation of body dealers. Often, city morgues did not distinguish claimed bodies from that of Jane or John Does. Its undertakers could easily claim mistaken identity, and “accidentally” sell a body to the nearby physician’s academy. 

She was certain that the Curdle’s back door couldn’t possibly be as horrible as the coroner’s here or in Riverdale.

Jughead led her around the corner of the block, entering an alley that looked wide enough to accommodate a horse-drawn hearse. There were double doors sitting atop a sloped platform, where Betty assumed coffins were brought out to load. 

Jughead rapped on the door. 

Moments later, they heard a latch being undone and a lock being turned. The door cracked open and a young girl, perhaps ten, with dark brown hair, pigtails, and freckles on her nose, peeked out. 

“State your name.” She meant business.

Jughead only seemed surprised for a heartbeat. “Jughead Jones. And this is my colleague, Betty Cooper.”

The girl eyed him and then her momentarily before holding the door open for them both. “Follow me.”

As she led them down the hall in her white pinafore and flowery sleeves, Betty observed the premises, how it seemed sullen, but clean. The smell of formaldehyde was predictably prevalent, so was the distinct chill, no doubt caused by the stored blocks of ice used to preserve unprocessed bodies. 

They reached the room at the end of the hall where Dr. Curdle was sewing shut the chest of an elderly man’s corpse. Dr. Curdle did not look up as they entered the room. “Thank you, Arabella.”

Arabella curtsied and hurried off, her footsteps fading as she climbed a flight of stairs. 

Dr. Curdle finally looked up and began to put his materials away. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones and Ms. Cooper.”

“Thank you for having us,” Jughead said. He gestured to the stairs. “Your daughter?”

Dr. Curdle scowled. “My niece, Mr. Jones. Why would I wish to beget a noisy, snotty, utterly helpless being into this world?”

Betty didn’t know what to say and neither did Jughead. 

Dr. Curdle let out a sigh. “Though to be fair, Arabella was a well behaved child.”

“Is,” Betty corrected. “A child.”

Dr. Curdle looked mildly offended. “She hasn’t been a child for years, Ms. Cooper. Why do you think we permit her to assist us?”

“Assist you?” 

“It’s a family business and we must all do our part.”

Betty wasn’t certain there was anything a child of ten could be appropriately expected to do in a mortuary, but then again, at ten, Betty wanted to join Jughead and Charles in their Southside missions. Perhaps Arabella was just as eager to learn her family trade as Betty was. They both, after all, dealt with the dead.

“Did Jellybean explain to you what we needed?” Jughead asked—a means to get to the matter at hand while also filling the awkward silence.

Dr. Curdle nodded, covering the corpse between them with a sheet. He went to the water basin, cleaning his hands with soap and water. “She did.”

“Do you have it, then?” Betty asked. “The blueprint?”

Dr. Curdle’s expression remained as unchanged as he replied. “Unfortunately, I do not. It is impossible to secure those documents without causing an alarm. The Menhir--its structure, is a valuable asset. Dirigibles guard its towers all hours of the day and should anyone plot to destroy it, the blueprints would be the key to doing it successfully.”

Jughead scowled. “Are you suggesting that we are plotting to destroy the Menhir, Dr. Curdle?”

“I am suggesting no such thing,” he replied in a testy tone. “I am merely explaining the reasons I cannot just pocket that blueprint and walk out of the Menhir doors. The document is encased in a glass drawer, in a room full of other such valuable information. Engineers have access to said room and anyone with an access sigil can go in and out as they please.” He reached into his coat and brought out a small ceramic disk. On its face, a sigil was embossed. “This is an access sigil and you have exactly 48 hours before anyone is alerted to its loss. It will open the door to the room holding the blueprints, but you must do your business discreetly. If you are caught, I will deny knowing you.”

He placed the disc into Jughead’s outreached hand. 

“Should we enter after work hours, then?” Betty asked. 

Jughead shook his head. “That would seem too nefarious and will require intricate planning. We must go into that room while giving them no reason to suspect.” 

Dr. Curdle shrugged. “The Menhir is quite open to visitors. There is a tour, and you can join it to gain entry without any of us being suspected of collusion. Tell me when you’ll be there and I can lead you to the room and guide you through its files.”

“What would be the best time during the work day, Dr. Curdle?”

“Noon. Most employees would be away from their workspaces having their midday meals.”

“Then we shall be there at noon.” She exchanged glances with Jughead, who responded with a nod.

“Very well,” Dr. Curdle said. He paused and gave both of them a quick look. “You aren’t, are you? Plotting to destroy the Menhir? I trust your intentions based purely on my trust for JB, who wholeheartedly believes neither of you are terrorists.”

Betty supposed nobody would think Jellybean capable of harboring bad people. “We are not terrorists, Dr. Curdle. I promise you. We merely seek answers about a family matter.”

Dr. Curdle’s eyebrow arched. “Family matter, is it?”

She nodded. She did not know how much Dr. Curdle knew about her and her family. He might put together that her “family” had mostly to do with her ex-communicated brother, but the less he knew, the safer it was for him. It was entirely Dr. Curdle’s decision to continue or withdraw his consent.

“You will pay me the agreed amount, still?” Dr. Curdle asked. 

“If we can successfully look at those blueprints, yes.”

It did not take Dr. Curdle long to decide. “I will see you tomorrow at noon.”

*******************

She supposed they should have expected that the Menhir’s blueprints could not be so easily obtained, and to think they weren’t even certain that they would find anything amiss. It could be that the blueprints they had would be exactly the same as the blueprints the Menhir’s room of documents kept. Perhaps there was no secret to be found in the blueprints at all, but Betty did feel a sense of moving forward, even if the steps were small and halting. 

After they left the mortuary, they took a carriage home, and as they walked into the Jones front door, with Kevin helping them out of their coats, Jughead asked if he could meet her out in the garden for a nightcap.

He seemed to exchange looks with Kevin, who gave him a casual nod. “The tea tray’s been set.”

Betty promised to join Jughead in a few minutes. 

She made a quick trip to her bedroom, dressing down to less layers. It was a cool night, so a shawl would be prudent. 

When she joined Jughead in the garden, there was indeed a tea tray. She never noticed the oil lamps until now, since she’d never been in the garden at night. 

Jughead took one half of the loveseat as he stared up at the sky. She took a moment to admire his dark hair, his narrow pointed nose, his tight lips, and how his jawline framed what she’d heard others call a pretty face. It boggled the mind how some would say this in a disparaging way, but she supposed having heard it from his old Southside “friends” back when he still lived in Riverdale, it could be surmised that Sweet Pea’s ilk wouldn’t be partial to his soft features. 

She thought him handsome, and the way his blue eyes looked back at her made her stomach turn flips, still. The rest of the world can have their chiseled jawlines. Let the likes of Archie, Reggie, and Munroe dazzle with their traditional good looks. Her Jughead, with his furrowed brows and tight-lipped smiles, his delicate lines contrasting with his high cheekbones, delighted her senses in every way. 

“See anything interesting?” he teased when he finally noticed her arrival.

She sat herself on the other half of the loveseat. “I am merely enjoying the view.”

A blush rose in his cheeks even as he chuckled softly and said, “I have something for you. To celebrate your induction, and I wanted to give it to you here, where we can talk privately, where no one would think to interrupt us.”

He took out a wrapped package from within his coat, flat and palm sized and Betty was instantly touched, even without knowing what it was. 

She cast him a fond look. “You did not have to.”

He seemed shy, all of a sudden, and bobbed his chin towards it. “Open it.”

She did, and as the wrapper fell away, she saw that it was a jeweler’s box, and when she flipped the lid open, she discovered a necklace with a charm. The charm was a lovely gold, like its chain, and it was fashioned into a book with familiar markings, similar to their book of alpha sigils.

The metalwork would have had to have been customized, for the symbols in the book of sigils were uncommon. 

She pressed the charm to her heart. “I love it, Juggie. It reminds me of the day I kissed you at the library. It reminds me of us.” She reached across the seating, cupping his face in her hands as the necklace laced her fingers, pressing her lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss. 

When they separated, she offered the chain to him, and he helped her put it on. 

“I wanted to give you something that meant something--” he paused briefly “--to us and only us.”

Betty fingered the pendant delicately, turning over what he said in her head. This wasn’t just an induction gift. It marked their relationship and how they were bound, but unlike a ring, this was private, something only the two of them understood.

And perhaps this was his own quiet way of saying she was his, the same way he was hers. 

A light flickered off overhead, in the Master’s bedroom. Gladys and FP had turned in. 

“Our closest friends and family will notice,” she said. “Not only your mother, but the likes of Cheryl, Moose, Reggie…”

He nodded. “And it’s what I wish. I want them to know that I love you, Betty.”

She smiled as she kissed him, whispering her own words of love and utter devotion. 

She told him of her thoughts of him at the induction celebration, her fingers wandering into his blouse and her teeth tugging gently at his lips. He never needed much convincing, but they needed to be a little more discrete. 

Kevin was still up, waiting for them to finish tea, no doubt, so Betty went on ahead to her room, beginning to shed her own layers. She was stripped down to her corset and petticoats by the time Jughead knocked on her door. 

He seemed entirely too pleased at her state. 

He may complain about her layers of clothing, but it was quite clear that he loved to undress her, peeling off layer after layer as he tasted patches of her skin. He enjoyed the tantalizing challenge of his fingers seeking her pleasure beneath her fabrics and unraveling her before all her clothing had been removed. He sighed in satisfaction when all that was left was her chemise, and his lips followed in the wake of its hem as he pushed it up and off her body in painstaking leisure.

She liked that she had less layers to remove from him. She enjoyed the immediate access to his skin and parts. She exercised no restraint in undressing him so that she could immediately feel his shape and texture against her tongue and lips. It pleased her immensely when the pressure of her grip sent his eyes rolling closed and his groan of pleasure escaped heedless from his throat. 

She didn’t remove the necklace, and he relished the sight of her wearing it and nothing else. He held the pendant in his fingers, smiling down at it with his own private thoughts, then he let it drop, its delicate chain skimming over her skin and the miniature golden book resting lightly just above her breasts. 

His skin touched the charm more than once--his fingers brushing against it when he cupped her breasts, his cheek pressing into it when his mouth sucked her nipples, his tongue running over the chain on the back of her neck when, both of them upright on their knees upon the bed, he entered her from behind, his one arm braced around her waist and the fingers of his other hand teasing her into oblivion.

His whispered admiration of her and her body, her softness and her readiness, the sound of her moans and the circling of her hips as they met his—made her feel like a goddess. And she found that Jughead liked to hear her beg and that he wrestled with his own control when she called him My Lord. 

Details stayed with her, even as she tumbled into one climax after another, and even as he emptied himself, his name on her lips, inside her body. 

************

Early mornings were always easy for Betty. 

She remembered how even being out late the night before, skulking about in the Southside, rousing herself early in the morning never weighed down her mood for very long. 

She discovered that it was even easier to start the day fresh when the night was spent with the warm touch of someone else’s lips and the closing of spaces between bodies. 

Waking with her cheek against Jughead’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, made her smile through her drowsiness. He must have felt her stirring, because he awoke and he shifted in the sheets, slipping his hand over her hips as he nosed the space between her jaw and her shoulder. 

“I know I should leave,” he whispered. She could hear the smile in his voice amidst the quiet of the room.

She closed her eyes, arching her head back to give him more access to her skin. “No. _ Stay.” _

“But we have time yet, don’t we?”

He whispered an idea in her ear. It was early enough that they could share a shower, with time enough to get ready for the morning _ and _avoid the awkwardness of him getting caught sneaking out of her room.

The shower was just the thing, and the lather of soap was never so tantalizing.

It was fulfilling, indeed, to explore each other’s bodies and its pleasures while also getting so clean.

***************

Jughead had grown quite adept at helping her dress. The first time he offered to assist, he fumbled and laughed, but now he had grown more accustomed to the intricacies.

Yet, he still marvelled at the thought that she had been dressing herself since she arrived at the Jones home, where she had declined a ladies maid.

“I wish we had insisted you have one,” he said, focusing on the miniscule hooks along her skirt. “Then again, what do I know? I suppose mother or Jellybean should have insisted, but JB is a hoyden and mother is—well, we both know what she is.”

“I haven’t had a ladies maid since before that,” she corrected him. “Shortly after Charles died, we realized it was imprudent to keep one.” She held up her hair when she noticed he kept parting them.

He sighed softly, though he kept on, pulling at the ties. “I’m sorry you had to do without for so long.”

She tutted. “Oh, don’t be. It’s ridiculous, really. Poor little Elizabeth, without a ladies maid. Honestly, the least of my concerns.”

He smiled rather ruefully over her shoulder at their reflection in the glass, and Betty smiled lovingly in return. It was a pleasure, seeing the way his trousers drooped low on his trim waist and he remained bare chested to help her. It was like him, to think of her first.

“Shall I complicate this knot?” he asked, smirking as he tied her skirt in the back. “So that you may require me to untie it later because you can’t do it by yourself?”

She laughed softly, draping her hair over one shoulder. “Stop it, my lord, or we’ll never get this done.”

Predictably, he dropped a kiss on her neck. “Don’t call me that if you wish to stay clothed.”

She did like to tease him in these moments. 

He helped her with her corset, tightening it with his dexterous fingers, but he would never pull so hard--far more merciful than any ladies maid that had ever helped her dress. 

“Can you breathe?” he asked. Every single time, he would ask this question, and as always, she replied, “Easily, which perhaps means you haven’t pulled enough.”

“Your shape is perfect. You don’t need these torture devices to squeeze the breath out of you.”

She would pull them tighter, anyway, before his very eyes, and he would sigh in discontent when he watched her suck in that breath then let her body settle in the brace. 

He said no more on the matter, however. He would never insist on knowing better when it pertained to her body. 

She wore these corsets to keep things in place, not to shape her body. She didn’t like them terribly tight, either, for her mobility was crucial, but if her corset was too loose, her lady parts would move about most uncomfortably with more vigorous activities, such as running. And far too many times, her corset had protected her against those who have sought to harm her, so they served more than one purpose.

“The ladies need to be secured, Juggie,” she explained, lightly, pushing her breasts up from beneath her corset with a giggle. “Now go on and double knot it.”

He would do so as he grumbled, “Fair enough.”

When it was easier to manage on her own, he took his leave of her, and by the time breakfast was served, they’d already had tea in the garden, waiting for everyone else to wake.

They were bright eyed at breakfast amidst the more muted morning energies pervading the dining table, and their housemates took notice.

“You seem well-rested,” Jellybean remarked at her brother. “Did you not arrive later than we did?”

“Unlike other revellers who shall not be named,” Jughead replied as he spread butter on his toast. “I did not partake of the libations.”

FP scowled. “I, too, remained sober, and I maintain that I might be more cheerful right now if I hadn’t.” 

“Don’t be a grouch, my dear,” Gladys said as she peeled an orange. “It is Betty’s first day as an official Peace Dealer and Jughead’s new partnership--and supervisor. And department. It’s no wonder they both have a bounce to their step.”

Betty noted the steel in Gladys’ eyes and she wondered if anyone told her ahead that Jughead would be leaving his father’s department to go to Cheryl’s. Gladys’ daggered glare in her direction told Betty that Gladys was putting the blame solely on her shoulders. 

As breakfast concluded and everyone prepared to leave, Kevin presented Betty with a package.

“This arrived in the mail for you.”

Betty looked at the return address and saw that it was from her mother. As she gave the package a quick examination, she noticed Gladys looking. She thanked Kevin and tucked the package in her coat.

Gladys took her own transport, sent by the Guild. She had business with the Ealdorwoman’s office today. The rest of them piled into a separate carriage headed for Guildsman Hall. 

The ride was mostly silent, but Betty felt the stories simmering on the surface, with FP giving up his son to Cheryl, Jellybean dying to ask them about their visit with Dr. Curdle, and Jughead staying a foot away, perhaps wanting to ask about the package that arrived for her, or just simply wishing he could be alone with her.

It was a relief to arrive at the Guild, with all of them briskly going their separate ways. 

“Was that package from Alice?” Jughead asked the moment they could speak privately. 

Betty nodded. “I didn’t dare leave it at home.” 

She didn’t need to explain how his mother might very well take liberties with it. A woman who can retrieve the sealed records of an ex-communicated man was capable of opening someone else’s mail. 

Betty hoped they had time to examine what Alice had brought them, but when they arrived at the department, they were swept into a flurry of activities, with Cheryl’s monthly department meeting, quick missions, and a fair bit of paperwork. 

By the time lunch came around, they were already too busy making their way to the Menhir, where they were scheduled to meet with Dr. Curdle 

*****************

The tour was surprisingly crowded, populated by people of different ages and backgrounds. 

Jughead could tell by the various accents that there were very few native New Kinsmen in the group. Most were from out of state, some perhaps even overseas. The Menhir was a busy establishment, with workers milling about amidst the tourists. 

Betty had chosen muted colors today, lights shades of gray and simple lines that, had it been worn by anyone else, such clothes might have erased the wearer completely, but no one as lovely as Betty could ever quite be completely eclipsed by drab clothing. 

Or perhaps that was just him. 

“If we did not have a particular purpose,” Betty whispered aside as they walked with the stragglers. “I may actually enjoy this tour.”

A wave of affection washed over him. “We hadn’t had the opportunity to revisit our plans that first day you were here. Our frolic was cut short.”

“Hmm, yes, it was, and it's been quite a ride since, hasn’t it? Oh, look. I believe I see Dr. Curdle over there.”

He did see Dr. Curdle, not quite staring at them, but likely pretending to do something as he walked across an intersection in the hallways. As the tour moved along, Jughead eased them both into the busy throng of people until they were separated from the tour group and following Dr. Curdle a distance away. 

There were some clipboards tucked neatly into cubbies along the wall and without knowing what they were for, Jughead grabbed two of them and gave one to Betty. 

Perhaps they would seem a bit lore like Menhir personnel this way. As they walked briskly to follow Dr. Curdle, they noticed how the throng of personnel had been thickest where they left it. Here, where the actual work of the Menhir took place, there were no crowds or human currents. 

They had, as Dr. Curdle told them, flocked to lunch. 

Dr. Curdle entered a room, closing the door behind him, and Jughead dug into his coat for the access sigil.

Sure enough, when they reached the door, he used the access sigil to fit it through the disc-sized keyhole. He turned the disc and the door opened to admit them. 

They entered a dimly lit facility, not that much different from the archives at the Guild, with rows and rows of shelves. Except that the overhead lighting was deliberately darker, colored by crystals to soothe not only the eyes, but the documents they hoped to preserve. There was a nip to the air, as well. Cool like a cellar but without the smell of damp. 

There was a sound at one of the far end rows, and they followed it, finding Dr. Curdle standing over a glass panel, slid out from one of the shelves. The panel hung from its mount on the shelf at table height, framed glass pressing a set of blueprints between its panes.

It was clear that removing the blueprint from its mounting would have been a laborious procedure, unless Dr. Curdle managed to take the entire glass pane with him unnoticed.

“Is this it, then?” Jughead asked, digging into his coat for _ their _blueprints. 

Dr. Curdle nodded. “The main floor. The other floors are in here, in other panes.”

Betty checked the labels and annotations, confirming what Dr. Curdle had said. The blueprints were nearly a decade apart, and the construction companies differed. Their original blueprint, dated 1820, designated J.L. Master Builders, over 50 years ago. The construction company on the newer blueprints stamped their logo as a seal, with the initials A&S. 

She fished an envelope from her pockets and handed it to Dr. Curdle “Thank you. This is important to us.”

Dr. Curdle took the envelope and tucked it into his coat. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.” He left, his footsteps receding as he went. 

Jughead had Charle’s blueprints unfurled, holding it up and trying to compare it with the sealed blueprints visually. 

Betty held out her hands for them. “Here. Give them to me.”

Jughead did not question her. He gave her the blueprints and she laid it right over the blueprints within the pane. She took out her crystallizer and activated it, holding it underneath the glass. The effect was instantaneous. The light from her device illuminated the print from beneath, showing them an overlay of both blueprints. 

Jughead immediately caught on, aligning the print on both blueprints until they appeared as one. 

Betty moved the crystalizer, section by section, identical in almost all respects except one. “There’s an extension here.”

She pointed to a wide space, situated just towards the back of the building. She lifted Charles’s blueprint to confirm if. 

“It’s small,” Jughead said. “But it _ is _different. It could be nothing. Could be a utility chamber.”

“But it could be something else. Remember what Armoniel said.”

Jughead nodded, his expression grim.

They scanned the rest of the blueprint and saw no other anomaly. They hoped it was all they needed. 

Betty pushed the Menhir’s blueprints back on its shelf as Jughead tucked away theirs. Carefully, they made their way back out of the facility, making sure no one noticed them. It was easy enough to return to the busy currents, even dropping by the giftshop so that Betty could purchase a booklet explaining the Menhir’s history, then blending back into the crowd, and looking just like everyone else. 

****************

Cheryl sent them on missions again the moment they returned from their trip to the Menhir, and by the time the missions were exhausted, it was late enough to go home. 

They were unable to reconvene until after supper and they decided that the rooftop would work best for their latest conversation. 

She found that in spite of all the other important matters at hand--the blueprints and the package from her mother, she was idly flicking a card between her fingers, a card that accompanied a bouquet of flowers delivered directly at their door. 

The red tulips and carnations came in a lovely arrangement, tied with a yellow ribbon, and if she knew her flower language well, which she did not, red might signify love and yellow passion. They were not from Jughead. 

The accompanying card said:

> _ Ms. Cooper, _
> 
> _ Scarcely have I found the courage to confess my true intentions, for I would not be so bold as to presume that your thoughts would ever parallel my own, but should I defer my heart any longer, I cannot promise to retain my wits, for any proximity to you inspires feelings warmer than any mere acquaintance might warrant, and I fear that one day it shall be too much to bear. Humbly then, do I ask, that you accept my request to visit at tea time, this Saturday, so that I may deliver my truth in person. _
> 
> _ Yours, always _
> 
> _ Reginald Mantle _

All things considered, the meaning of the flowers could escape her, but the meaning of the note could not.

The corner of it was folded, which signified he delivered the flowers and the note himself. 

She had been contemplating the ways in which she would turn him down, for a note seemed heartless, but quick. In person and he won’t know until Saturday, in which the days leading up to it may fill him with devastating hope. 

“Tulips and carnations?” Jughead grumbled as he placed their book of sigils on the coffee table between them. “How positively unimaginative.”

She bit her lip to contain her smile. “How so? I think these flowers are lovely.”

“They are common. And boring. Tulips declare his love _ while _carnations express how his heart aches for you. Not to mention the yellow ribbon. Mantle is laying it on rather thick.”

She could barely keep from laughing. “Well, don’t _ you _know your flower language.”

Jughead made a sound of disgust. “I must, lest I send the wrong message to anyone. Trees and herbs are my preference--they are so nicely unromantic, but if I must go with flowers, white roses are so satisfyingly succinct: _ I cannot. _Is there anything so dramatic yet so accurate?”

“Is that so? White roses.”

_ “White roses.” _

She was fascinated by Jughead’s love of symbols and name meanings, for had he not confessed to seeking the meaning of his Daemon’s name? “And what sort of flowers would you have sent me, my love?” 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, which made her laugh at his absurdity. 

She could tell that he was resisting the urge to laugh himself. “Begonias and Clematises, for sure, but I would have red Camellias and blue Heliotrope in abundance.”

Was there anything more Jughead than flowers rarely named? “And what does that all mean?”

“Begonias, because they are a warning--beware, dark thoughts.”

She liked this already. “Oh? Yours or mine?”

“Stop being coy. We both have them.”

She bit her lip at his pointed look and the low timbre of his voice, resisting the urge to say something provocative in return. “The Clematises?”

“A tribute to your beautiful mind.”

She sighed, touching the necklace on her throat. “And the Camellias and Heliotropes?”

“You are a flame in my heart, my love and devotion, eternal.”

Jughead had such talents at wooing when he applied himself. She would surely reward him for this later and she made certain that her eyes conveyed her pleasure of him. 

She pocketed Reggie’s note and thought perhaps she ought to send white roses back to him, as Jughead not-so-subtly suggested. 

As much as she enjoyed this conversation, Reggie’s flowers were not the reason they were here. The more important matters at hand beckoned. 

“As riveting all this talk of flowers is--” She brought out the pamphlet she bought at the giftshop and placed it on the coffee table, beside their book of sigils. 

Jughead sighed and nodded. “Have you read that yet?”

“It is sparse. Rather unsubstantial, but it did tell me who A&S is.” She opened the pamphlet to the first page of the book. “Andrews & Son Construction.”

“Andrews? Do you think that Gal Sneaker is related to this?”

She chuckled at the nickname. “Could be. Though I doubt _ he _is involved. Mr. Andrews wasn’t even conceived when the Menhir’s construction was completed. His father would have been in his teens, so perhaps his grandfather, if it’s even the same Andrews.”

Jughead made a sound. “I suppose some research is in order. We may have to interview Andrews after all. I find myself entrenched with these boys again and again and I blame you.”

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy.”

He snorted but did not argue. 

Betty took that to mean his grousing was exhausted for the moment. “We will look deeper into the Menhir’s history. In the meantime, how shall we examine the phantom section in the Mehir?”

He nodded, picking up the book and opening it to a page. “The Menhir, like any other properly secured Kin facility, is Daemon proofed, meaning Kin who don their Daemons cannot phase through its walls, but there is a sigil in this book called ‘Preventing Trespass by Those Liketh Thee.’”

She remembered then that there were things they could do as one Daemon that was not possible for the unbound. It was an unforgettable feeling, being one entity with Jughead, like they could do all manner of wondrous things when they were together in that way. “Do you think we can pass through the Menhir walls if we were bound--the way we were in the spectral realm when we were speaking to Armoniel?”

He flipped the book where he had tucked a bookmark between its pages. “Yes, the sigil to combine appears to be further down the book because such a state gives us quicker access to the more powerful sigils. There’s one way of doing it--the usual way, where we draw a sigil and we invoke it in an elaborate sequence, much like how we’ve been invoking these alpha sigils, but there is a way to bypass the drawing rituals and immediately invoke the unification of our Daemons and some of the other casts by the mere clasping of our hands.” He gave her the book, pointing to the passage he wished for her to read. 

Betty scanned the passage quickly. “It says here we can get identical sigil marks on our palms, inked in each other’s blood.”

“Not only is it a commitment,” he said, sighing. “It could very well out us as Daemon Bound if we aren’t careful, and that’s with the promise from the Inker that they won’t reveal our circumstances.”

“Do you think we could have trusted Sabrina to ink this for us?”

“Perhaps. She knows and she hasn’t breathed a word of it to anyone, but I believe we can trust Ms. Topaz as well.”

It wasn’t that Betty didn’t trust Toni. She did feel that Toni took her vows as Inker seriously, but this secret they had felt precarious enough with just the two of them and Sabrina knowing about it. Did Toni’s vows of confidentiality supersede the edicts of the Imperium that warned of unregulated Daemon Bound Kin? She didn’t know Toni as well as Jughead did. 

“We need to consider, Jughead.” 

He nodded. “We don’t need to decide on that now. We can invoke it the usual way. I think we’d have enough time to do so.”

She agreed that they could think about this at another time. Instead, they planned their trespass into the Menhir, where they might require some recognisance for at least an evening. 

“I rather miss venturing out at night,” she said, grinning. 

“Oh? I rather like our preoccupations of late.”

She laughed and took both his hands in his. “I shan't argue for I most certainly concur, but surely a different preoccupation wouldn’t hurt, especially if it’s only for _ one _night.”

“Surely, but have you been in recognisance before? They could be dreadfully uneventful.”

“Indeed. I’ve had my share, but I used to do it alone. It might be less dreadful if we had each other’s company.”

“That would imply that we can do things other than observe our target location. I assure you, if I preoccupied myself with you, we might very well fail our objectives.”

Betty had to refrain from imagining what sort of preoccupations they could get up to when boredom struck. “Oh, stop. We are professionals, you and I.”

He chuckled, ceding the point with a gesture of his hand. “And so we are. There are buildings right behind the Menhir where we might possibly get a good view without us being noticed. If we are to investigate tomorrow and venture out at night, we must get some rest.”

So much for planning to reward him in bed. 

“There’s one last thing,” she said before he could lead them back inside. She touched the package her mother had sent her. 

“Oh, yes. The reveal of your so-called powerful relatives.”

“Something to add to our Murder Board, no doubt.” 

“Occiden--” 

She arched her eyebrow, amused by his attempt to correct her. 

He sighed. “Very well. Murder Board.”

She chuckled softly as she unraveled the knot holding the package together. There was a seal to hold the paper wrapping and she peeled it off, revealing a brown envelope holding several folios, and Betty pulled them out to read its contents. “Oh, lovely. My father’s birth certificate, and some other documentation--estate proceedings for when my father’s father--my grandfather passed…”

As her eyes beheld the names on these old, browning documents, she began to piece them together. There were names and cross references, but the last document, the one of her grandfather’s birth certificate, knit the entire fractured picture together. She looked up at Jughead, and perhaps her expression was one of shock, because he started to look concerned.

“Betty, what does it say?”

“Grandpappy, he--he apparently changed his name, or rather his last name.” She shuffled through the papers again, confirming what she’d read the first time. “To Cooper.”

“Well, what was his real name? Who are your relatives?”

“Blossom. His real last name was Blossom.”

tbc


	18. Belly of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but to make up for how long it took, I'm putting up two chapters, and this is the first of that. So I hope that you enjoy it!

The Menhir was a wonder, a monolith of concrete, steel, lights, and insurmountable waves of aether. The tower atop it glowed with the aether it harnessed, harvested from the wild and potent emissions of intersecting ley lines so unique to New Kin. 

It was the machine that kept the city alive with energy and its modern technology. It ensured that New Kin would remain one of the most powerful Kin strongholds of the world. 

The Imperium owned the structure, but the operation and maintenance of the Menhir was entrusted to twelve board of directors. The Chairman of the Board was most often the Ealdorman or Ealdorwoman, and the rest of the members were selected by nomination of various groups invested in the Menhir’s success, which included scientists, business men, engineers, and industrial capitalists. Nominations were either rejected or voted in by sitting members of the board. 

Just as any other organization, seats were won with political savvy, so while wealth and influence did win many seats, the working class managed to carve representation onto the board. In theory.

It was politely accepted that the Menhir Board of Directors was a fair representation of the people of New Kin, but whether this was true was often subject to speculation. After all, the Guild always had a seat at the table, most commonly its Prime Guildsman, the construction workers were almost always represented by prominent Freemasons, the Engineers would always be represented by someone friendly to the real estate magnates of the city, and the Menhir’s Chief Alchemist, though assured a seat at the table like the Prime Guildsman, was so ancient that he was believed to be senile. 

It was also true that as fascinating as this political jockeying was, Jughead knew that no one gave much of a care about it. So long as the city lights were on and New Kin’s modern conveniences were functioning for their pleasure, the board could consist of the 12 most unattainable people on this earth and the Kin wouldn’t blink. 

However much the Kin took the benefits of the Menhir for granted, it was truly a magnificent sight to see, especially along the skyline. It’s glow blanketed the entire New Kin sky, and for those born in New Kin, they would always know the night sky to be green. 

As Jughead stood on the rooftop of a neighboring building with Betty, binoculars on hand, he contemplated the power of the Menhir and how it was so uncommon to think critically of it. 

The area he and Betty were observing had been relatively quiet the last hour. Patrols appeared to make their rounds, but the alleyway bordering the back of the Menhir stayed free of trespass. Not a single soul, living or dead, had walked through it or accessed the building’s large doors. Jughead could only assume that this was where large deliveries were received and accepted, and perhaps it was busier during the day. But late at night, it was more often quiet than naught. 

According to the blueprints, the access point they wished to breach was closest to the back of the building, which Jughead thought worked to their advantage, particularly when they had to draw the sigils. 

Reconnaissance was about as dull as Jughead expected, but Betty had been particularly quiet since they arrived. 

“Am I boring you, Ms. Cooper?” he teased as he leaned over the railing. 

She flashed him a slow smile. “I apologize. I have things on my mind.”

He could tell as much. As Cheryl sent them out on missions for most of the day, he noted the contemplative look on Betty’s face at several intervals. He could only surmise that she was thinking about broaching the subject of her relations to Cheryl. 

It was rather funny that Cheryl had somehow conjured her meeting with Betty at the beginning of all this and that they turned out to be cousins. Perhaps it was true that blood called to blood. 

“Have you spoken to Ms. Blossom yet?” he asked.

She sighed. “I have not. Once again, I find myself fearful of the truth. It was the Blossoms that demanded Charles’s ex-communication, and even knowing Cheryl had nothing to do with it, I hesitate to learn the full weight of their responsibility.”

Jughead had come to realize that Betty considered Cheryl her friend, and perhaps for good reason. He and Cheryl butt heads constantly, but there was a grit, ferocity, and passion in Cheryl that Betty appreciated. “The only way is through it, Betty.”

Betty nodded. “Like we have reached the edge of the dark forest filled with dreadful monsters, and yet it is, as you say, the only means by which we can arrive at the other side.”

“There is nothing in that dark forest we cannot handle together.”

A faint smile tilted her lips, but it was clear that her trepidation would not be swayed by his promises of support and loyalty. She was, however, kind enough to appreciate him trying. 

She redirected her attention to the Menhir’s back entrance. “This is why I detest reconnaissance. My mind goes to bleak places.”

“This entire business is bleak. For everyone, and it is spreading. Where once we felt this was a matter exclusive to the injustice Charles suffered, it now seems like there is something larger than all of us. At times, I feel overwhelmed by it.” He didn’t like admitting to weakness, but it was easier with Betty. He felt strengthened by her. Sharing his doubts with her lessened the weight of the burden. 

“As do I.”

Drunken singing filtered through the city sounds, rising up from the distance, and as they watched the back alley leading to the Menhir, they saw the lush stumbling into view and settling upon the delivery platform. 

His small figure was animated with broad gestures, from the raising of his empty bottle to his lips, to his loud annoyance as he threw the bottle to the ground. The pop was followed by the tinkle of glass. 

Jughead once found FP this way, drunk and noisy. He almost preferred finding FP passed out in the ditch. At least that way, Jughead did not have to dodge thrown bottles and swinging fists, then again, being intoxicated out of one’s dignity however which way was never a good look, no matter how elegant the Opium Den was.

Betty’s shoulders straightened as a uniformed man came into view. He was dressed like a mutton shunter, but he could have been commissioned to watch the surrounding area of the Menhir at night. He spoke profanities at the lush, ordering him to leave or be beaten into retreat. The drunken man raised his arms in a calming gesture and proceeded to make his way out of the alley. His cooperation did not prevent the police officer from nudging his forward with his foot to the man’s rump. The drunk stumbled but did not fall, hurrying his escape. 

This was the fourth such appearance by a roaming police officer and Jughead was beginning to realize that their challenge would be to evade these hired patrollers as they did their rounds. 

“Is it the sound that drew him this time?” Betty asked.

He nodded. “This was an exception to their timed patrols. Could be the same chap.” He raised his binoculars to his eyes but it was difficult to make out any distinguishing features with the uniform and helmet. “Or it could be a different one. Hard to tell.”

“They patrol every half hour by my watch,” Betty said. “So long as no one wanders into our midst while we’re invoking the sigil, we should have plenty of time between patrols.” 

Jughead wished it were so easy. The very nature of the unexpected was that it came unannounced and there was only so much one can do to prepare for it. “We’ll need a lookout. Someone we can trust completely.”

Betty arched an eyebrow. “That person would have to know everything, Jughead. We can try to keep our Daemon Bound powers a secret, but the moment he witnesses what we can do, he will ask questions. Lying is always hardest with the people who trust you.”

Jughead already knew they were thinking of the same person. “We’ve demonstrated alpha sigils in front of other people.”

“Yes, but that sigil includes memory loss as a matter of function. I don’t know if I can do to Mr. Mason what we did with Reggie. Can you?” 

Of course he could not. Reggie was not a man Jughead shared a dorm room with for years. Reggie was not the man Jughead trusted with his life when on missions. Moose was the closest Jughead had to a real partner for years, even as Trevor came along. 

“We would have to explain everything to him--being Daemon Bound, our investigation on Charles… everything,” Jughead confirmed. 

Betty sighed, heavily, but she nodded as she turned her attention back to the alleyway. 

“He will keep our secret,” he added, to reassure her. 

“I have no doubt of that, but will the secret keep  _ him?” _

**********************

It was early, yet, when Betty walked through the doors of their department. Jughead, coming up behind her after holding the door open for her, gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze. 

“You don’t have to do this now,” he said, his tone low so that no one else would hear. 

There was a hum through the office from those who had arrived before them. It would be a half-hour yet before the daily din broke through the silence. Until then, everyone seemed to be speaking in soft volumes. 

Betty wondered momentarily if she could push off this conversation with Cheryl for the evening, right before everyone left for home. Surely people would care less to eavesdrop, but after that moment’s hesitation, she renewed her conviction. 

There was no better time than now. The hours in the evening were uncertain, even if she requested Cheryl’s assistant for an appointment. In this line of work, plans could change at the last minute. 

“No, I must do this, or I will put it off indefinitely,” Betty replied, holding her documentation tighter against her chest. 

“Would you like me to sit in there with you?”

“Best not. You don’t inspire her better nature.” 

He cast her a mildly scathing look, though the corner of his mouth was lifting in what Betty might consider sardonic humor. “Well met. I will be at my desk when you are through.”

Betty found herself staring at Cheryl’s office door alone, but while she felt that this task was unsettlingly unpredictable, she was steadfast in her resolve. 

She rapped her knuckle gently against the wood and waited for Cheryl’s summons.

When Cheryl told her to come in, Betty took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

Upon seeing her, a faint but distracted smile lifted Cheryl’s lips. “Good morning, Betty. Aren’t you early today?” She shuffled through the papers on her desk with one hand while sipping from her cup of morning coffee with the other.

“Do you have a few moments to spare? I have something important that I wish to discuss.”

“It is another half hour before my next appointment. Please, sit. Is that folder for me?”

Betty settled in the chair and laid the folder on her lap. “Perhaps. This discussion may seem very odd, but I assure you, it is a serious matter. Did your mother ever speak to you about your extended family?” 

Cheryl’s lip curled in mild distaste. “Don’t know what you’ve heard, Betty dear, but the Blossom family history is rife with drama and intrigue. I have and never will relish a sit down with my mother about my relations.”

That introduction did not bode well, but Betty carried on. “I can’t say I’ve heard of any... colorful tales of the Blossoms. Perhaps I should have.” She stared at the folders in her hands as she carefully laid it upon the table. “My family has quite the history, as well. As you and everyone else knows, my brother was Forsaken and exiled to Riverdale, banished to never set foot in Kin cities and towns for the rest of his life.My own father died a mysterious death at sea…”

Cheryl snorted and leaned back on her seat. “What is it about fathers? If they don’t get lost at sea, they hang themselves from the rafters.”

A pang of sympathy shot through Betty. “Is that what happened to yours? I’m sorry. That sounds horrifying.”

Cheryl seemed only mildly affected. “Old news. He was a right bastard, and I mean that in the worst sense.”

Betty wished this wasn’t turning out as badly as she had expected. “You recall that I travelled back to my hometown.”

“Yes, before your induction.”

“It was a rather revealing homecoming, particularly with regard to my family tree. Mother was not so forthcoming at first, but eventually she gave me this.” She touched the folder with the tips of her fingers. “As proof of my lineage.” 

Cheryl seemed confused. “Sounds interesting--I think. And you are telling me this, because…?”

Betty opened the folder and handed Cheryl the first two documents at the top of the modest file. “This was my grandfather’s birth certificate and another document indicating that he requested a name change.”

Cheryl looked both documents over, her gaze going from one and the other in quick succession. “I don’t understand. This birth certificate says--where did you get these documents?” She looked up, her eyes now sharp with disbelief, and perhaps mistrust. 

Betty braced herself for what was likely to come. “From my father’s archives, but the seal certifying these documents--they are authentic.”

“What can’t be falsified these days?” Cheryl asked in a harsh tone. 

“I have no reason to falsify my lineage, Cheryl. I have no need of wealth or support--my brother made sure of that when he bequeathed his estate to Jughead.”

“Then why? Why are you bringing this to me? How long have you known we were cousins?”

Betty put her hands up in the hopes of calming Cheryl down. “Only since before the induction. Mother sent me these documents in the post and only then did I piece the truth together. I have not been lying to you, Cheryl.”

This only served to harden Cheryl’s expression more. “You have not answered why, cousin dear.” She said this with such disdain that Betty had to tell herself not to react accordingly. 

“I am seeking the truth, regarding my brother’s ex-communication. It was revealed to me that it was my father’s powerful relatives that demanded Charles’s banishment, as recompense for a crime that my brother did not commit. I don’t believe that ‘powerful’ is a descriptor so easily bandied around that an official Imperium document would say so casually.”

Cheryl’s chests were heaving with what appeared to be outrage, but the seconds that followed seemed to soften her shoulders the slightest bit even if the next words that came out of her mouth seemed hostile. “You are accusing my family of perpetuating an injustice against your brother.”

Betty did not contradict her. “What I or anyone thinks does not matter. What compels me are the connections. The Imperium points to an accuser--bereaved relations with immense influence, powerful enough to demand, and succeed in, my brother’s ex-communication, and according to this birth certificate, it is the Blossoms who may very well be those relations.” 

“So is it revenge that you want? Paint the Blossoms as monsters willing to sacrifice family for their own gains? Or perhaps it is recompense that you seek? I thought—I thought we were friends! How could you—“

“Oh, Cheryl!” Betty cried, trying to keep her tone level and calm. “I do consider you my friend. I want only the truth.”

“Is it?” Cheryl hissed. “Is that all? I have lived and survived in this society surrounded by those who wish nothing but to further their self interests. You can’t tell me you have information such as this and not have an angle you wish to pursue.”

Betty’s heart sunk at her words, wondering just how harshly Cheryl had been treated to think this way. In her desperation, she clasped Cheryl’s hand to convey her sincerity. “Cheryl, please. I must know why my brother was ex-communicated. The truth may seem a paltry fortune, but it is everything to me. If I can speak to your mother, that would be everything I need. She knew my father. She indicated as much during Veronica’s birthday party. Perhaps she has insight into Charles’s case.”

Cheryl glared at her and pried her hand from Betty’s grasp. “You want me to drag my mother into this?”

Betty cast her a beseeching gaze. “I realize that I give you no reason to help me, but like it or not, you and I are family, Cheryl, and if there is one thing I know you hold sacred, it is that.”

That Cheryl did not contradict her immediately was something Betty considered a victory, however minute. But Cheryl’s eyes flashed with scorn, and Betty knew the worst was yet to come. “If, by some fit of insanity, I bring this to my mother--though I make no promises in that regard--and she refuses to speak to you, what, then, will stop you from enacting a public scandal out of spite?” 

Betty took a deep, calming breath. That Cheryl could hurt her with her words was a new sensation, but it was logical to feel pain when she and Cheryl had bonded on what could be considered a personal level, outside of work and profession. Clearly they had both thought they were better friends than this, but Betty reminded herself that Cheryl was fiercely independent, always defensive, and quick to believe the worst in others. Trust was tenuous with those fairly new to her circle, and Betty supposed only time could foster it. “I had hoped that our daily interactions has convinced you that I am above such behavior--”

Cheryl scowled. “Come now. You can be viciously determined, at least as much as I. It is a trait in you that I have come to appreciate, but you come to me now with information such as this and what am I supposed to think?”

When Cheryl put it like that, Betty had to admit that she could be motivated, perhaps provoked, to resort to such measures. The onus of trust fell to her. “Take these documents. Keep them, burn them--I care not. They are yours. They are the only proof I have of my lineage to the Blossoms. I do not seek wealth or notoriety. I desire only the truth--a complete picture of what happened to my brother.” 

Cheryl took the documents with swift resolve, putting them away. “Does Jones know about all this?”

Betty nodded. “What he and I want are the same. He was very close to Charles. You need not worry about him causing a scandal, either.”

“Very well,” Cheryl hissed. “Whether or not there is any truth to what you’ve told me, you will hear from me again. For now, I think it best to keep our relationship strictly professional, don’t you think?”

Betty stifled a sigh, nodding as she rose from her seat. “Of course. I am at your disposal.”

Cheryl narrowed her gaze at Betty momentarily before reverting her attention back to her papers. “I will be sending you and Jones on a mission, shortly. Hasten back to your office and await instructions there.”

Without another word, Betty left, wondering what manner of mayhem Cheryl would inevitably subject them to, this day.

****************

Jughead stepped out of the carriage first and held his hand out for Betty to follow. She took his hand as she gingerly stepped out, all the while staring intent upon the brownstone home. 

He could feel a strange sort of heaviness in the air around them, like treading murky water, and he wished so deeply to keep his head above it, lest that dirty water rush into his nose and mouth. 

They were at the home of the Friedmans, assigned by Cheryl first thing in the morning. Betty had wondered out loud if they were assigned this case as a form of punishment for her upsetting discussion with Cheryl this morning. 

Jughead wasn’t certain, but what Moose said did cast that theory into doubt.

“There have been quite a handful of cases of this kind, lately--possessions. The other Logisticians have been talking. There’ve been half a dozen before this, already.”

It was small comfort that possessions have fallen in the category of Business As Usual.

Jughead settled in the moment, taking in the energies that were presenting themselves to him. 

“This child is in serious trouble,” Betty said, almost in a whisper, as if she did not want the spirits to hear. “If we don’t expel the entities out of him soon, they will drag his soul with them to an untimely death.”

Jughead nodded. He could feel it, the gates between the realms engaged in a battle of push and pull. The child’s soul was barely anchored to this plane, having fought this spectral tug-of-war for days on-end. He was outnumbered from the beginning, but the child must be stronger than they knew. 

The family’s spiritual advisor, Rabbi Elliot—secretly a Seer, was the one who sent for the Peace Dealers to help them. 

“You can feel it, too,” Jughead said. “The Thinning.”

The Thinning was the weakening of the gates that separated the realm of the living and realm of the dead. It did not mean certain death, but when the portals felt that a soul was being separated from its earthly vessel, the portals, like entities, anticipated the soul’s liberation. When it was a slow separation like this--a possession where parasite spirits picked and pulled at a living soul, the phenomenon permeated like a miasma to those who could sense it. 

It happened at deathbeds, as well. Any slow death can conjure the Thinning, and even for the Kin, one never got used to it. 

Moose hopped off his carriage seat. “Should I invoke the borders?”

Jughead nodded and exchanged knowing looks with Betty. “Yes, please. And when you’re done, please follow us inside. We’ll need a third to help us with the exorcism.”

Moose nodded before beginning his work. As he cleared the ground of debris, he seemed mildly distressed. “There’s a Ley Line that intersects on this property. I wonder whether that contributed to this catastrophe. These intersections were bound to cause a reaction.”

Jughead looked at the house, considering in earnest the merits to that theory. 

Moose took his ponderous look to mean skepticism. “Half of the Kin’s most respected Caelestologists believe it to be true. Hell, half the engineers at the Menhir swear by it.”

It was hard to argue with the reality that it was those very intersecting Ley Lines that powered New Kin, but the theory that it could affect anything and everything Kindred and Paranatural was still unproven, though Jughead was not adverse to the notion. It was frightening that there were forces outside of their knowledge that they knew nothing of that could affect them, with no rhyme or reason to temper it. 

Jughead gestured for Betty to climb the stoop to the Friedmans’ front door. 

As they waited for someone to answer their knock, Jughead tried to discern the history of the house. Just like at the pencil factory, he could feel an inkling of what had been left behind, anything that may indicate how long a place has been haunted, or how much its stone and metal has had to endure. 

Almost all houses and places had a history of death, plenty of them natural, but the worst haunts, especially one leading to possession, counted violent deaths in its past, particularly ones that were ritualistic in nature. 

This house had no apparent murder, terminal illness, suicide, or even accidental deaths in its history, which was stated in their Reaper file, but Jughead had hoped his own senses could pick something up where the reports have failed. 

He could feel nothing from this home. It was clean and unsullied. This house had seen very little of tragedy, so it was strange that these spirits were here at all. 

“Do you feel that?” Jughead said, placing his hand upon the door. “About the house?”

Betty gave him a questioning look. “Do you mean the spirits?”

“No, the  _ house.” _

“I feel--well, the spirits are in the house, and I feel the stress of its inhabitants, but the house itself is--” She seemed unable to find the word.

“Neutral,” Jughead supplied. “A house with no history of violence and suffering cannot possibly invite malicious spirits into its walls without ritual summoning. It means one of two things: They  _ were  _ invited to this house or it isn’t the place that’s haunted.”

Her eyes flickered with thought. “It is the child that is haunted.”

He shrugged. “Possibly, but I wonder what would cause the spirits to attach to him and follow him home.”

She frowned. “Is this child Kin, then? Just that he and his parents don’t know it? Or they could know it but that fact was kept from him?”

“If he were Kin, the spirits would have been unable to possess him. He could be a Seer--just doesn’t know it yet? In all of that, Moose’s extrapolations about intersecting Ley Lines might not be that far off.”

The door opened and at the threshold stood Rabbi Elliot. He was a man in his forties, with a close-cropped beard and dark brown eyes. He was not wearing his wide brimmed hat, but he wore his skullcap, as did the other gentleman in the room, whom Jughead could only assume was Mr. Friedman, or someone close to the Friedmans.

“Are you the Peace Dealers?” Rabbi Elliot asked with just a hint of caution. 

Jughead nodded. “Guardian Blossom sent us.”

Rabbi Elliot let out a soft breath. “Thank goodness.” He stepped away from the door to let them in. “The situation is a grave one.”

Jughead let Betty through the door first and saw the look of surprise on the faces of both gentlemen at the sight of her. 

“This is my partner, Ms. Elizabeth Cooper,” Jughead said as he stepped into the house. “I am Jughead Jones, at your service. Mr. Mason, my colleague, is currently on the sidewalk invoking the borders to prevent the escape of the spirits. He will be joining us when he is done with the task.”

The other gentleman was clearly uncertain of their presence there. They were likely not reminiscent of any type of spirit banisher that one such as this Locked gentleman might expect. 

The Rabbi gave Betty a mildly curious look before gesturing to the other gentleman. “This is Noah’s father, Mr. David Friedman. Mrs. Friedman is downstairs with Noah. We’ll meet her shortly.”

Hands were shook and Jughead noted the clamminess of Mr. Friedman’s. The nervous energy around him was understandable, considering his son was currently possessed by multiple entities. 

Rabbi Elliot led them to the receiving room. “You read the file?”

Jughead nodded. “Noah is twelve, devout, mild mannered, and a good student. Parents David and Allison Friedman are just as devout, attentive, and have a good relationship with their son. When did Noah first speak of the spirits?”

“Two months ago,” Mr. Friedman said. “He complained of sounds around the house. Little noises that bothered him--knocking and ticking, he called them. Things scrambling up through the walls. We thought we had rats and called in an exterminator.”

Betty’s eyebrow gradually rose and it was not lost on Jughead that “exterminator” was their preferred cover story with the less enlightened. 

“And the exterminator did not find so much as a rat dropping, I’d wager,” Betty remarked.

Mr. Friedman nodded. 

“When did the voices start?” Betty asked. 

Mr. Friedman seemed surprised, no doubt by the sequence of events that Betty so accurately predicted. Jughead hastened to explain. “These situations, however extraordinary, follow a pattern, Mr. Friedman. This has happened to others before and is typical of a possession.”

“A month ago,” Mr. Friedman replied. “Noah began to complain that he was hearing people talking in the hallways or through his walls at night.”

“Did he ever hear them up close?” Betty asked, and Jughead was beginning to feel impressed by her learned grasp of the matter at hand. 

“He was never so specific,” Mr. Friedman replied. “I am not certain.”

“Did he seem startled for no reason, like he had just heard something over his shoulder? Or did he always have to go toward the sound? To find out where it was coming from?”

Mr. Friedman seemed to find significance in her words. “Yes, he always said they were coming from somewhere. In the kitchen, or upstairs, or in the other room.”

“The voices were never with him,” Betty said, almost to herself, as her eyes began to scan the room around them. 

Mr. Friedman and Rabbi Elliot seemed surprised by her words, and Jughead’s curiosity was piqued. 

He followed her gaze as it rested on a row or pictures above the fireplace. She went to the photographs lined upon on the mantle, her fingers grazing each, one at a time. 

Most of the photographs were that of Noah--extraordinary in that most photographs of people were that of the dead, but these were almost all of the living. Other than that, they were all mostly ordinary, unsmiling faces posed in various ways. 

“Do you see anything, Ms. Cooper?” Rabbin Elliot asked.

She nodded, picking up a frame containing one photograph of Noah and probably his mother, Allison Friedman. She handed the photograph to Jughead.

As he looked at the framed picture, he noticed the dark shadow hovering behind the image of Allison. Noah was not haunted, but his mother was.

_ We must speak with his mother.  _

Jughead nodded in response to Betty’s thoughts. “Mr. Friedman, we need to speak with your wife.”

***************

Allison Friedman sat with them in the receiving room while Mr. Friedman and Rabbi Elliot left to accompany Noah in the basement. Mr. Friedman, they were told, never wanted to be alone with his son in his current condition, unlike Allison, who could bear it alone. 

Betty opted to stand by the window, looking out into the street as Jughead and Mrs. Friedman sat around the coffee table. She felt sympathy for this woman who had to bear her burden alone but she felt upset by her choice to keep her so-called affliction a secret, even as Betty understood the pitfalls of being an anomaly amongst the Locked, particularly when they were devout in their religious beliefs. 

When Betty laid her eyes on Mrs. Friedman the first time, she knew immediately that Allison was the Seer in the home. To what extent--that is what they hoped to determine by speaking to her. 

“How long have you had them with you?” Jughead asked. “Noah’s ghosts?”

Mrs. Friedman froze. “I don’t--”

“Mrs. Friedman,” Betty said, gently, though her gaze remained outside the window as she watched Moose finish with the sigil. “We know what you are.”

Mrs. Friedman seemed flustered by her straight-forward approach, and then defensive. “Do you, now? I hardly know what I am, myself.”

Betty finally looked at her. She noted the exhaustion, and the frustration. It wasn’t Noah who was fighting off the ghosts, it was Mrs. Friedman. 

“Ma’am,” Jughead said in a quiet but firm tone. “Your son’s life hangs in the balance as we speak. We must know everything before my colleagues and I extract the entities from him.”

Mrs. Friedman started to cry, her shoulders shaking as she wept, and Betty stifled a grin as Jughead’s dependable handkerchief made its appearance again. Mrs. Friedman took the offered cloth and used it to dab her eyes with it. 

It was in Betty’s opinion that Mrs. Friedman was far stronger than this. “If you know their names. It will be easier for us to get them out. I surmise that you’ve seen spirits all your life and that you’ve done everything you possibly could to shut them out, but the restless dead could not be quieted. If you see them and hear them, you shall do so your entire life, no matter how much you pray or go to temple. The worst of them will cling to you and torment you. If there are enough of them, they will attract a Shadow Wraith--a malicious dominant entity that knows how to possess the living.” 

Mrs. Friedman looked up from her tears. “I’ve lived with this affliction my entire life, but I had never had to fend off so many until I joined this community. I suspect that it is because Rabbi Elliot sees them too.”

Jughead nodded. “Yes, he sees them, but I don’t know if that is why you are seeing more  _ of _ them.” 

Mrs. Friedman scowled but did not contradict him. “The Rabbi summoned you here. Have you known him long?”

He shook his head. “No, but he may know our people. It is common for Seers such as him and yourself to interact with our kind. Seers tell us when your kind are bedeviled by spirits, when your homes are haunted, when a place is seemingly cursed. They help us help the non-Kin.”

A silence befell them, with Mrs. Friedman’s sniffing breaking the quiet as she stared into the handkerchief in her hands. Finally, she said, “I did not know this could happen--that they could bedevil my son. I caused this, didn’t I?”

Betty looked to Jughead, hoping he could put it less harshly than she.

“Your son acknowledged their existence,” Jughead explained. “He heard them. Probably saw them. I don’t know if that means he is the same as you, but he doesn’t have to be when that many spirits are infesting your home. Seers like you see spirits all the time, but when spirits escalate their haunts, they can eventually manifest to others. You could not have known all this, of course. Blame is pointless.”

Mrs. Friedman’s lip trembled but she did not dissolve into tears this time. Instead, she fingered the Star of David around her neck. “What can I do?”

Betty felt heartened by her response. To hear her ask what she can do proves that Mrs. Friedman understands that the past will always be unchanged, and that moving forward is the only means by which to affect it.

Jughead dug into the pocket of his coat and produced a small notepad and pencil. He turned the notepad to a fresh page and handed them to Mrs. Friedman. “Write down their names. Tell us what you can about the spirits. Do you know the Shadow Wraith’s name? The dominant?”

Mrs. Friedman seemed unnerved by that question, even as she accepted the implements. “The dominant? Do you mean the demonic one?” 

It was a common misconception, Betty knew, that the demons the Locked feared, were not the demons they imagined. Locked history was rife with imagery of Daemons who were painted as malicious beings, yet the Kin knew better. Even Daemon Wraiths—Kinless Daemons, did not possess people. They wrought havoc with other Daemons, often collected by Wraith Lords, but they had no desire to harm living souls, even if they could. 

The “demons” of Locked lore were actually what the Kin classified as a Wight, entities that crossed realms, most of which tended to be harmless to human beings, though there have been rare instances in history that authentically documented them in instances of possession. 

They were so rare and unusual that they barely merited a chapter in Peace Dealer text. 

Likely, this was another instance of mistaken classification. How could Mrs. Friedman possibly know? 

“The one the other spirits seem to be afraid of,” Betty explained.

Mrs. Friedman still seemed uncertain, but she did get a notion for it. “I don’t know who the dominant is. I knew he was there but he never told me his name. He came about two months ago and kept asking about the realm keepers.”

Betty was startled by that last detail. 

_ They never ask for us, do they? I’ve never heard that happen before.  _

Jughead caught her eye and nodded in agreement. 

“Write down everything you know of them,” Jughead said to Mrs. Friedman. “Then we will save your son. I promise.”

**********

A scream pierced the silence of the house, rising through the basement door. Its tone was one of anger and amusement, voices interwoven into a deep, inhuman growl. 

“They’re here,” said the voice. “I can feel them! The realm keepers! You  _ finally  _ brought them to me!”

Betty arched an eyebrow and exchanged looks with Jughead and Moose. It was logical that the spirits would detect their presence. She wondered if the Shadow Wraith knew that they were there to capture him and send him away. If that was so, then he’d felt the likes of them before and watched them at work. 

“Ugh, I detest Shadow Wraiths,” Moose muttered as he descended the stairs behind them. “I don’t suppose you think Shadow Wraiths are worth a talkie-talk, too, Ms. Cooper?” 

She chuckled softly in mild reproach. “If only to help entrap them, Mr. Mason. In this situation, I would recommend that the more expedient instruments of the Guild be employed in greater measure.”

“Excellent!” Moose said. “This should be easy, then?”

Jughead’s scowl manifested and he made his way down the steps. “The Shadow Wraith orchestrating Noah’s possession has had months to ensnare him. Untangling Noah’s soul from that of the others’ may require a more complex ritual. It will require all of us to invoke a sigil.”

Moose raised his hands in dramatic surrender. “Well, don’t bite my head off. Just that it’s too early for anything complicated. Perhaps you did piss Ms. Blossom off, Jones.”

“It wasn’t Jughead that pissed her off,” Betty said because she knew Jughead would never say. “It was me. I said something that upset her.”

“Must have been something. She likes you exceedingly, Ms. Cooper.”

Betty surmised that Cheryl liked her a little less, today. 

As they passed a certain depth in the stairwell, Betty felt assaulted by the atmosphere.

Profanities of the worst kind rose from the belly of the basement, coupled with rattling furniture and the breaking of glass. The smell of rotten eggs filled her nostrils, and while many of the Locked called this smell sulfuric and hellish, they of the Kin knew this was the stench of a corrupted soul inhabiting the body of the living. 

Finally, there was the increased temperatures emanating from Noah. The human body was capable of generating enormous amounts of energy and heat. When it was under assault from corrupt entities, the body reacts like it would when ill--it generates a fever. This is a fever of the worst kind. 

Noah was strapped to an overturned chair in the center of the basement, where there was less likelihood of him crashing against the things lined up against the walls. He was awake, or the entities in him were. The youthful glow of a twelve year old child was gone. His skin was mottled and pallid, his eyes rounded and yellowing. His hair was matted and his lips were cracked and bleeding. 

As they came into view of Noah and everyone else, Noah laughed inhumanly. “It took you long enough! For a moment I thought you would never be summoned! This family, you see, wants nothing to do with the likes of spiritualists and cultists, so forgive me if your appearance here excites me. Then again, you need to meet your quota, don’t you? You will always find spirits to harvest, even from the most unwitting of the Locked.”

Betty was frankly astounded by the knowledge this Shadow Wraith possessed. It was using Kin words, like he  _ had  _ been observing them for a while now. Intelligence in Shadow Wraiths was fairly common. Intelligence was, in fact, one of their defining characteristics, but to hear one speak of things, like he had committed them to memory, was not so common. Shadow Wraith will reference knowledge within their own immediate experience, usually from events that happened within the most recent timeframe. This spirit seemed to be referencing things far beyond the here and now. 

“Cheeky, isn’t he?” Moose said. 

Jughead met eyes with Betty, and she knew instantly that Jughead was wondering about the same thing. 

Noah’s attention swung to her and Jughead, his gaze going from one to the other. “Oh, but aren’t the two of you strange? Could it be we finally found you? Why, we haven’t seen the likes of you in  _ ages.” _

A small sense of alarm began to permeate from Betty’s gut. Was it at all possible that this Shadow Wraith was referring to her and Jughead being Bound? Could spirits glean that sort of thing?

Noah laughed again, louder this time. “Oh, but you wonder how I’d know that, don’t you? I ain’t like these realm dwellers. No siree! Not at all.”

Not a spirit, though lying was something Shadow Wraiths have learned to do. Yet, Betty kept going back to the extended knowledge this entity seemed to have. 

“Let’s draw the sigils,” Jughead said. “Rabbi, you may want to take Mr. Friedman upstairs. Wait there with Mrs. Friedman and no matter what you hear—“

“Don’t come back down,” Rabbi Elliot finished as he ushered Mr. Friedman to the stairs. “We shall remain there until you and your colleagues emerge.”

Betty watched them ascend as she took out some chalk to help draw the circle around Noah.

As Moose did his side of the sigil, he looked up at Jughead. “This Shadow Wraith is unusual.”

So Moose noticed it, too. 

Jughead nodded in confirmation. “Indeed. Perhaps not a Shadow Wraith at all.”

Betty wondered if it were possible to collect the reports of the other possession cases. To find out if any of the reports held clues about the supposed Shadow Wraiths they collected. It was entirely possible that Peace Dealers have been putting away this type of entity, just that unlike her, none of them cared to have discussions with them, or even think twice about the kind entity they might be. 

Noah made a keening sound.  _ “Fuck  _ your Shadow Wraiths! You know what I am, Peace Dealer. Oh, don’t look at your Other that way! She knows it, too! Or are you reading each other’s minds? Your kind do that, don’t you?”

Now Betty was convinced this spirit—or White, knew what she and Jughead were. 

“Oh, you think we can’t feel you?” Noah cried. “We feel you so deep. It is why we’ve been crawling out of our realm. We are drawn to the likes of you! Just like we’re drawn to Wraith Lords--though the Wraith Lords are  _ much  _ nicer than you. I won’t be the last of my kind you’ll find. You’ll think it’s just coincidence, but it isn’t. Your alpha sigils beckon. Our kind travel the Leys to find you.”

Jughead seemed unable to resist. “Why? What purpose does finding us serve?”

The alarm rose louder in Betty’s ears. He was being far too candid than Betty was comfortable with. Moose was listening, and while they had agreed to reveal their true selves to Moose, she didn’t know if this was the right time.

“Why does a moth fly into a flame? Who knows?” Noah laughed, not a single care for Betty’s anxieties. “Perhaps it’s the chaos. Sweet delicious chaos. It feeds our kind, you know. You may entrap me, but I’d have served others like me by the spectre you create. It’s a fair trade, though, don’t you think? We want your chaos, you benefit from the aether—“

“Jughead,” Betty said to interrupt. She was giving him a pointed stare, but Jughead seemed to have made up his mind. 

Moose was scowling.  _ “What  _ is he blabbering about?”

Noah twisted his head unnervingly to look at Moose. “Oh, don’t you know? Your friends over here are Daemon Bound.”

*********************

It took some doing, of course, putting away the White and the spirits that followed him, and they did need to employ an Alpha sigil, which then gave Moose the kind of frontrow seat to their Daemon Bound abilities. 

In hindsight, Betty supposed Jughead was right about picking this moment to lay it all out for Moose. The man was a visual learner. Showing Moose was a better introduction than telling him.

As it was, the white’s frank revelation sent Moose on a small tirade, demanding an explanation.

At the end of it, they were able to extract the White from Noah, trapping it in a vial. With the white out of the way, extracting the other spirits from Noah was much easier.

Noah was freed and alive, though the child may need time to recover, both from the injuries possession had inflicted on him and the trauma of losing control of his own body. 

Allison Friedman promised to seek help for her gifts so that she may not bring home strange spirits and creatures again. 

Betty thought they did their job quite nicely and she remembered distinctly why she found her duties so fulfilling, but she did also remember a simpler time, when Peace Dealing was about helping spirits crossover and nothing else. No reports had to be filed, no leadership to please, no vials, and hardly a sigil cast. 

But even with all that, she had no real complaints. She was being paid for what she loved to do and she was doing it with the love of her life. Her family home and her mother was safe from financial ruin, and she was exactly where she belonged. 

What manner of trouble that may find her to ruin this utopia would then have to be her fault. 

The thought was mildly disconcerting, and all Betty could do to dismiss her feelings of unease was to shovel teaspoons of sugar into her coffee. 

It quickly occurred to her that both Jughead and Moose were watching her over-sweeten her beverage with growing curiosity, which prompted her to employ a diversion. “Where would you like us to start, Mr. Mason?”

They were sitting around the coffee table of the Jones’s rooftop for their lunch hour, with the intention of answering any and all questions Moose may have about their revelations. 

“I don’t know much about the Daemon Bound. I wasn’t even sure I believed in them.” He eyed them both, as if to determine what might mark them as what they claimed to be. “Your kind are rare, yes?”

Jughead nodded. “We used to be the norm, but our kind somewhat got bred out of existence as the Kin thrived and increased in number, and then we... dissipated almost entirely, or rather, the Imperium made our existence unpalatable. There have been less than a handful recorded in the past two centuries.”

“Do you finish each other’s sentences?”

That struck Betty as both funny and saccharine.

“Well, we could,” Jughead replied in a candid tone. “We can literally read each other’s minds. But, that would be insufferable of us, wouldn’t it? 

Moose made a disapproving sound, but nodded. “Extremely. Is it true you have special powers?”

“There are sigils that only the Daemon Bound can invoke,” Betty said. “Alpha sigils, they’re called, and they could be powerful used in the right circumstance. Our Daemons respond to both of us and to each other, we can communicate over long distances through them, and there are likely a host of other things we are yet to explore.”

He seemed to be processing all these facts as he sat, staring vacantly at the pot of coffee. “Did you always know?”

“No,” Jughead replied. “We only just found out for certain when Betty first got here, but I have suspected for years, though only when I started living in New Kin. Never, when we were studying together at Riverdale.”

“I see.” Moose dug into his pocket and took out a cigarette. “May I, Ms. Cooper?”

She nodded. “You may.”

He lit it and took a deep long drag before expelling the smoke into the cold New Kin air. “So this—“ his fingers waved between them, “—this thing you have; you are actually attached, aren’t you? It isn’t just some Daemon Bound tendency to—“ He tapped his fingers together, as if that visualized the very thing they were.

Jughead shot him a sardonic look and quite frankly, Betty was too entertained to help Moose through his very awkward question.

Moose continued. “This ‘distant cousin’ thing is really the worst, Jones. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you either a bastard son or some wayward youth in trouble with the law, but that’s just me.”

“Jughead is neither of those, but you’re right,” Betty said. “We are not related at all.”

“Someone please explain that fact to Mr. Mantle.”

This was, to Betty, a distracting statement. “Is that why he insists on pursuing me?” 

Moose snorted, but nodded. “He is in a state of denial, I’m told.”

Are others talking about this? “By whom?” Betty demanded.

“Oh, the Gal Sneaker. He’s a fairly talkative fellow, but Mr. Andrews has only ever seen you hold hands, and Mr. Mantle may have seen you do so, as well, if briefly, but it appears he considers that open to interpretation.”

If there was such a thing as hearing Jughead’s thoughts “grumbling”, that was how Betty would describe the stream of consciousness wafting from Jughead right now. 

“I suppose if I were in denial,” Moose continued. “Any detail I could use to color the reality I prefer would do nicely. If you call him a distant cousin, it is what I would cling to. If we were to be honest, hand-holding is a gesture of affection not exclusive to lovers, and it isn’t as if you carry on more intimately than that in a public fashion. Arguably, I spend a lot of time with you both and I’ve only ever seen you kiss once… perhaps you stare lovingly at each other on  _ several  _ occasions, but I can see how Mantle could dismiss that. Other than that, you’ve done your best to be discreet. I don’t think you even  _ do  _ things in my carriage… do you?”

Jughead’s pointed stare intensified even more.

“Don’t answer that,” Moose quickly added.

“Mr. Mason,” Betty interjected quickly before they burrowed more deeply into this hole. “The status of our relationship is only part of the picture. The most important facet of all this is that no one else must know we are Daemon Bound.”

Moose shrugged as he poured himself a cup of coffee, his cigarette between his fingers. “I understand. It is a secret.”

Jughead’s stare did not waver. “It is a secret because the Imperium and the Guild look upon our kind with fear. They would prefer that the likes of us be under their control, which means they will tag us with sigils so that they may know every move we make. They may separate us to keep our powers contained, but turn around and exploit our powers when it is convenient for them. It is not how Betty and I wish to live. We would very much like to exist on our own terms.”

Moose paused as something seemed to dawn on him. “Then why did you choose to share this secret with me?”

“Because we need your help,” Jughead finally said. “Charles Cooper was excommunicated and then later killed. We want to know who did it, and why.”

A long sigh escaped Moose as he took a sip of his coffee. After a moment, he put his cup down and said, “Good Lord, Jones. I had a feeling it would be something horrible like that.”

***************

“Do you think Cheryl knew?” Betty asked as they skulked in the dark of the alley. “Of the White?”

She did not know why she was asking this now. They were on their mission to infiltrate the Menhir--quite the stealth operation. They were even dressed for it, wearing the uniform issued to them for missions such as the raid on the Wraith Lord hive, so it did require focus, and perhaps this conversation was unnecessary at the moment, but it had been two days since they were sent to the Friedmans and Cheryl was still aggravatingly aloof with her. 

Jughead and Moose exchanged confused looks, but Jughead, dear that he was, was gentle with his protests. 

“Betty, sweetheart, is this the right time to--?”

“I apologize, but I am distracted--have been distracted, and I’ve found that speaking openly to you of such matters has historically helped in refocusing my energies.” 

He sighed, softly, and she supposed that at that moment, she did not give Jughead much choice on the matter. 

“How adorable,” Moose grumbled, clearly stifling a laugh as he took his post by the alley entryway. 

Jughead dealt him a glare but he replied to her anyway. “Betty, I don’t believe so. The Reapers mentioned the Shadow Wraith, so it was they who misclassified it in the first place, and likely not on purpose. Shadow Wraiths and malicious whites are impossible to tell apart without a close encounter and the past possession cases were probably reported by the assigned Peace Dealers as being Shadow Wraiths. You know that other Peace Dealers are never keen on having conversations with entities of any kind.”

“Do you believe what the white said? That we are attracting them because we’re Daemon Bound? Because we bring chaos?” She began to draw the sigils on the ground and he followed suit. 

“There is no reason to disbelieve him.” 

“Do you think we bring chaos, then?”

“What is investigating Charles’s ex-communication, if not courting chaos?”

Betty’s feelings on the matter were not so casual. “You don’t think that upsetting?”

“Betty, my love, if chaos upset me, I wouldn’t be in this business, and neither would you, for that matter.”

She supposed he was right, but she couldn’t quite forget that passage in the book that spoke of the Daemon Bound and its cautionary tales of burning intensity. 

They had grown so tightly close to each other that they were becoming beacons, like two filaments generating energy and light, attracting entities that sought to siphon off their powers. What did that mean in their lives? 

And why hadn’t Cheryl come back to her on the matter of their family relations?

Jughead squeezed her arm. “I understand that the past few days have been trying and that you have a lot on your mind. I have felt your turmoil and you told me that you were determined to think of the mission first. Has that changed?”

It has not, but she feared that her insistence on putting her troubles aside has backfired on her in the most inopportune time. “The mission is most important, Jughead, which is perhaps why I find myself vocalizing my feelings at this very moment. I was mistaken in setting my feelings aside, but it felt so trivial--”

He hushed her, gently. “I promise you, when we are done with this mission, we will talk at length. Do you believe I will keep this promise?”

Out of everything, her faith in him made her stronger. “I do.”

“Good. Right now, I need you to focus.” 

She nodded, finding that his words had quieted her frantic thoughts. 

“Just like we practiced,” he continued. “We need this to work, and if it does, it brings us one step closer to knowing the truth.”

She took a deep, cleansing breath, letting Jughead’s words fall into place. It did ground her, and that last reminder helped immensely.

She was able to do her part and when they finished the sigil, they invoked it. 

Betty imagined that as they began to fuse as one Daemon, Moose could scarcely believe his eyes--if one to judge him by his gaping mouth and saucer-wide eyes, but knowing the truth about them beforehand served as enough of a buffer from the shock of seeing this phenomenon for the first time. 

Moose quickly picked his jaw off the ground and shook his head. “Azrael’s phoenix, forewarn a man the next time you do that.”

They realized that amusement was not a foreign emotion for Daemons and they cocked a grin, just before they turned and made their way onto the platform leading to the back doors. 

“Shall we try it then?” they asked out loud. 

And as if they were speaking to themselves, they nodded and said, “We shall.”

Tentatively, they lifted their clawed hand to touch the Menhir wall, and slowly, their hand started to sink into the solid concrete. At this juncture, they paused, waiting for alarms or any evidence that they had been detected. 

Several moments passed and no cavalry arrived to apprehend them. Nothing prevented them from proceeding, so they pushed forward, slowly going through the walls that were thicker than they realized, and while they felt a moment of panic at the seeming endlessness of it, they soon found themselves on the other side, the drone of the interior building’s machinery a constant in their ears. 

That wall had to be at least ten feet thick, which only seemed to enforce the notion that there was a hidden cavern in the structure. 

They had studied the blueprint extensively, and they followed the map in their heads, looking where the blueprint told them to. 

The sound of guards roaming the facility did break through the hum of mechanisms, and they had to seek shelter in the shadows, but the usual Daemon deterrents did not affect them in this form. As Daemon Bound, they surpassed every Daemon proofing measure the structure possessed and it felt almost too easy to go undetected. 

At this point, it occurred to them that Moose may be more vulnerable than they. Moose had the uninteresting task of waiting for them to return. The sigil needed to be preserved, and it was his task to keep it hidden until they got back. 

Moose would have already hidden the sigil with his expert ability to glamour, marked with the same skill he had used to alter the appearance of their carriage in Riverdale, but they were in New Kin, and here, surrounded by Kin, the glamour can only go so far without being detected. 

They would have to trust Moose’s experience, however. There was nothing else they could do but carry on. 

As they got past the guards and wards, they came upon the secret passageway, its door disguised within the wall. They did not need to open it as they walked through the marble, and as they emerged through the hidden room, they found themselves in a cramped space, bereft of anything within its walls. It was as dark as a mausoleum but for the blue light of their Daemon selves. As they examined the space, they found the metal hatch on the floor. 

They began to feel the beginnings of their exhaustion--a consequence of their fusing. The book had warned them of this, and they had determined that once exhaustion began to set in, they needed to separate, replenishing their energies for when they had to combine again. 

Separating was as difficult and emotional as the last time, and as they stood facing one another as two separate beings once more, they held hands for several moments, foreheads touching in the dark, breathing in each other’s air. 

“Alright there?” he whispered after a minute of silent recovery. 

She nodded, cupping his face in her hand. He turned and kissed her palm, and digging his crystalizer from his coat, the room brightened with its light, and together, they made their way to the trap door. 

**********************

It was a long way down the ladder, roughly 15 to 20 feet beneath the surface.

Descending the trap door first, Jughead found himself nervous about what they’d find at the bottom. But when he got to the last rung, he cautiously held on to the ladder as he swung his crystalizer around, just to make sure there wasn’t a chasm beneath him. 

He seemed to trigger a reaction, as the cavern brightened with all the installed crystalizers along the tunnel. As the crystalizers glowed to life, one after another in both directions, Jughead alighted on solid ground, and he could only ascertain the length of the tunnel by how far he could see the lights go.

The technology on the installed crystalizers was clearly first generation, large and unwieldy, and nothing like the portable one he carried in his hand. They emitted a low buzzing sound, like they were prone to fizzle after an extended amount of time. 

The tunnels appeared cramped at first, reminiscent of underground catacombs beneath ancient cities. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if he looked back in New Kin history and found that these were catacombs long ago, converted into its purpose now. 

This was not an earthy structure, however. The ground was cobbled in stone, and masonry was certainly present. It was just high enough for him to stand upright, but if he jumped, he would most certainly hit his head on the ceiling. 

As he took began to orient himself to his surroundings, he realized that it was the walkways that were cramped, but the tunnels were cavernous enough to accommodate the large, groaning copper pipes along its side. They were at least seven feet in diameter, going the entire length of what they could see of the tunnel. They were sturdy and thick, by the feel of them. At regular intervals, there were round fittings on the side of the pipes. The nearest to him had an evident latch, and as he undid it, he realized it was a pressurized shutter, covering a glass peephole. As he looked through it, he saw only darkness, at first, but as he stared into the seeming void, he saw small pinpricks of light, like fireflies, coming and dissipating. They came few and far between, and finding nothing of interest, he turned to help Betty descend the ladder. She looked around her as she planted her feet upon the cobbled ground. 

Betty peeped briefly through the glass window, herself, turning away when she found nothing intriguing within. 

One thing was certain--there was no water in those pipes, and if they were for processing aether, the pipes would be more alive with light. Perhaps these pipes were no longer in use.

Betty stared down the length of the tunnel. “How far does this go?” she asked, breathless with awe. 

Jughead looked again, the distance incomprehensible from his vantage point. “Miles, possibly.”

“Shall we find out?”

Jughead felt that they didn’t have a choice on the matter. 

Swiftly, they made their way down the tunnel in a careful jog, avoiding any debris that might have dropped from disrepair. There weren’t many obstacles. There were parts in the tunnel that might have been slightly water logged, but nothing that made them question the structural integrity of the ceiling and walls, and even if the walkway could use some cleaning, the pipes looked to be in relatively good condition. There were layers of dirt in some parts, perhaps some molding in places. The crystalizer casings bore the brunt of rusting, but there wasn’t any rust on the pipes themselves. 

They were either constantly maintained by actual repair--unlikely if they were to go by the accumulation of dirt, or they’d been enriched by sigils to keep them decay free, and if that were so, these were not plumbing pipes. Pipes enforced by sigils were only ever used for spectre funnelling and processing, mainly due to their cost. 

Certainly, this was no surprise for an energy processing plant like the Menhir, but the pipes spanned such great lengths that Jughead could not imagine where they would lead to outside of the Menhir’s known structural perimeter.

Their quick trek through the tunnels showed them mile markers, and they’d already passed two. They had no way of knowing which direction they were heading for their compasses were inoperable surrounded by so much aether. 

About halfway through their second mile, Jughead spied a break in the distance. 

“Perhaps we’re nearing the end,” he said, pointing ahead of them. 

Betty did not disagree, and as they neared their apparent destination, it became clearer and clearer that they were reaching the end of the tunnel. The pipes seemed to continue into the far wall, but they could go no further, with the walkway ending in exactly the same way they began, where a ladder ascended into a hatch above them. 

Jughead immediately mounted the ladder to determine their course of action. They climbed the same depth that they descended, and at the top of the ladder, instead of a wooden trap, he found a metal door, sealed by a valve wheel. 

He gripped the wheel in both his hands and tried to turn it. It refused to budge at first, but as he stubbornly applied more force, the valve moved and loosened with a grinding shriek. He turned the wheel until its rotations were exhausted. 

“Slowly, Jughead,” Betty warned. “We don’t know what is above us.”

He nodded, giving the door a push. The compression of air escaped with a soft hiss, which told Jughead that the cavern wasn’t as tightly pressurized. There was likely some form of ventilation, however hidden it was. Jughead found himself ascending into a dimly lit space, hidden behind what looked like natural rock formations. 

He could, once again, hear the hum of mechanisms coursing aether through its gears, but in a much softer level, and unlike the secret space by the doors, this space was not enclosed, only nondescript, and any noise they made could possibly alert someone else to their presence, should anyone else be there at this hour. 

Betty tugged at his pant leg, though she didn’t make a sound.

Jughead waited and strained for any break in the sound. The only noise that broke the general silence was a soft, steady beep overlaying the low drone of what he could only surmise were datamancers. 

No footsteps pervaded, no typing of keys. Wherever they were, they were alone. 

Quietly, he rose above the hatch and gestured for Betty to follow. 

When they were both on level ground, Jughead observed that the hatch was well camouflaged against the patterns on the marble finished floor. If the trap were closed, it would look no different from the rest of the flooring. He could only suppose that there would be a key of some sort that could be used to open the trap from this side of the hatch, but otherwise, the more usual route would be from the tunnels. 

Betty gestured towards the entryway, and Jughead let her lead. Though there was no evidence of anyone else being there, caution was still the wiser course of action. 

Her back against the wall, she peeked carefully around the bend. For a moment, she was unmoving, then she turned back to him in mild confusion. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

She peeked again, less carefully, and then she was walking out in the open, and Jughead could only follow behind her. 

When he emerged from behind the wall, he saw that the wall itself blended perfectly with its background and that the opening was unnoticeable even from a close distance. The light surrounding the area offered a controlled space, where the illusion was enhanced, though Jughead did spy an etched sigil, which likely helped keep that hidden corner free of curious observers. 

It was only after he tore his thoughts from these clever camouflaging measures that he looked up and realized where they were and it threw his mind into utter confusion. 

“Jughead, what does this mean?” Betty asked. 

He had no answers for her, because at the moment, looking up and around him, at the amphitheatre and the observation deck at the top, the stationed dashboards rising up and around the bowl-like layout, and the magnificent, enormous machine called The Gates at the center of the cavern, he could think of no good reason for the Menhir to be at all connected to the Room of Realms. 

*************

They retraced their steps, and upon arriving at the hatch to the Menhir, it was necessary to return to their conjoined state to make their exit. With the original sigil still preserved outside the Menhir walls, invoking their unification only required the exchange of their blood, palm to palm. Only upon their return to their original sigil did they completely break the binding. 

There wasn’t much time to lament their separation. It was important to remove evidence of their sigils from the ground before they left, and when no marks of them remained, they left, and it was only when they arrived at the Jones front steps that Moose asked, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Betty exchanged uneasy looks with Jughead. 

“It wasn’t what we expected,” Jughead replied, and he left it at that. 

Moose sighed but insisted no further. “It never is.”

After Moose drove off, they turned in for bed, preparing in their separate rooms but inevitably seeking one another’s company later at night. 

This time, it was Betty who joined him in his bedroom, though she had far too many things on her mind to be immediately amorous. 

The past few nights have been like this, where being with each other and talking was intimate enough. Some of the books she had taken up over the weeks for reading were stacked on the right bedside table, where she tended to sleep. A penny dreadful, Charles Dickens’s “Nicholas Nickleby”, and a surprisingly interesting textbook on Wraith Lords, which she teased was her way of responding to his criticism. 

She walked passed him through his door and promptly climbed onto his bed, but instead of settling within its sheets, she took a pillow and clung to it, enjoying the comfortable softness of it against her body and the scent of his soap that clung to its threads. 

Jughead settled beside her, sliding beneath his blankets. “It’s cold, Betts. You should get under the blankets with me.”

She nodded, burying her nose in the pillow. “I know, but I will fall asleep straight away if I do. It is too comfortable. You promised we’d talk.”

“Yes, I did.” He turned on his side, propping his head with the heel of his hand. “What do you wish to talk about first? Ms. Blossom’s silence, our tendency to attract chaos, or the tunnel under the Menhir?”

“I wonder,” she began instead, “how they are all connected, spurred as they all are by the same catalyst.”

He took her by the hand. “Charles’s case has presented many facets.”

She nodded. “Our Murder Board makes that clear.” The other day, Betty added the Blossom name in the placement designated for Powerful Relatives on their murder board. While it was common knowledge that the Blossoms were rich and therefore influential, Betty needed to know more, and to do that, Cheryl must give her that audience with someone in her family who may know. “If Cheryl does not speak to me soon, I will revisit that dialogue myself.”

He did not seem in full agreement with her proposal. “Ms. Blossom does not appreciate confrontations, and I can attest to the fact that her spite is far worse than her silence.”

“Cheryl appreciates meek acceptance even less.”

“Fair point. She will see it as a weakness and exploit it.”

Betty wondered, not without humor, when she ever believed that Cheryl weren’t so impossible. At least Jughead had never lost sight of that fact. “I must be strategic about it, of course. A confrontation for the sake of itself would never do. I must raise the stakes; give her reason to address my concerns. At the very least, she had invested so much of her career on my success. She isn’t likely to sack me.”

“Well, not  _ you.” _

She cast Jughead a disbelieving look. “She wouldn’t dare have you sacked.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, not me, but there are others, for sure, whom she could use to make you stand down.”

Betty felt herself deflate. There was Jughead’s father, for one. Maybe even Moose. There were people in her life, now, whom she could not bear to disappoint. “Of course. I wasn’t--”

“Betty,” he interrupted, gently. “I was joking. Ms. Blossom will not sack anybody to get her way with you. She can be ruthless, yes, and her interests have been served by recruiting you to the Guild, but I know that not only does she think highly of you, she cares about you as more than just an employee. I believe she considers you her friend, and I am certain she appreciates that you went to her first regarding this matter. You could have gone straight to your Aunt Penelope.”

He thought himself clever for that last rib. Betty could tell by the twitch on the corner of his lip. She scoffed, though she did decide to get under the covers and curl into the crook of his body. He helped her get comfortable and when they were settled in this new position, his fingers stroke lightly over her arm. 

“Besides,” he continued quietly. “When she accepts the truth--that you and she are cousins, it will only serve to make her more bonded to you, for if there is one thing that Cheryl honors more than grit, it is blood. Her family is everything to her.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“I know I am. And when we settle the matter with the Blossoms, it hopefully gives us a significant piece of this puzzle. I dare not speculate on how the Menhir and the Room of Realms are connected, nor what that could possibly mean for Charles and his death.”

She turned on the bed to face him. “Perhaps the architects of the Menhir can tell us.”

_ “Not  _ a good idea,” he said, quickly. “The original architect of the building took pains to keep that tunnel secret. They will not be so forthcoming about the truth.”

“Noted, but first let us confirm who they are. We shall ask Andrews about it--in a casual manner, and find out if he is indeed related to Andrews & Son Construction, and see where it takes us from there.”

“Very well,” he replied, reluctantly. “We can have that conversation at Veronica’s dinner party. Ought to be casual enough, and at the very least, there would be a point to the frivolity.”

She could not help but laugh at his grumbling. “Oh, don’t be grumpy. We would be amongst friends, dressed in our finest gowns and suits.”

He scoffed, softly, and he began to press soft, slow kisses along her neck. “Neither of those things appeal to me, especially when the complete opposite proves to be the more valuable endeavor: to have you alone and  _ unclothed.” _

Her grin melted against his mouth, and for several heartbeats, she could think of nothing but the gentle massage of his lips against hers. As her desire mounted, the voice in the back of her mind that sought to remind her that they  _ still  _ had to discuss the White’s disturbing revelations began to fade--completely silenced when Jughead’s lips traveled down her throat and his hands hooked the back of her knee over his hips. 

She shifted so that he could roll atop her, and even through the layers of her clothing and his, the pressure of his arousal between her legs rippled pleasure through her body, making her whimper with need. 

And if that weren’t enough to convince her, the slow glide of his fingers up her thigh as he pushed up the hem of her gown presented a compelling argument. She arched her body to ease the removal of the garment, knowing this dance nearly by heart.

“It’s been days,” he whispered as gently, he bit the lobe of her ear. “I need you desperately.” His fingers teased the center of her, where he would find her ready without much need of seduction. 

His soft gasp feathered her skin, and as his fingers made lazy circles and dips, she whimpered at the pleasurable sensations that were so quick to build. His touch was deliberate and perhaps at this juncture, well practiced. 

She was so quickly enthralled and felt herself fast approaching a climax 

“We can take our time, later,” she said, her own voice taking on a tinge of desperation. “Just, please don’t stop.”

“Oh, Betts,” he breathed, now braced above her to watch her in her pleasure as he continued to coax her ecstasy. 

It dawned on her soon after she splintered apart so easily that Jughead had so quickly learned her, and as she panted for breath, she gave him a small, chagrined smile. “Don’t you have me figured out?”

“My love,” he grumbled as she kissed the side of her neck. “That is only the beginning.”

The very suggestion that there was more where that came from made her ache, her belly fluttering at the tone of his voice, dark and tempting.

He raised her arms above her head as he kissed her, pressing both her wrists down against the pillows and slipping her hands just beneath the decorative rail of his headboard.

The railing was cold and metallic against her hands, but the warmth of his body covering hers kept the chill it cast at bay. She gripped the rail with desperation, needing it to keep her wits about her amidst the chaos her desire was causing. 

She nearly trembled with anticipation, watching him peel his blouse off his body. The waist of his trousers drooped low on his hips and she bit her lip at his slow, deliberate undressing. He was so evidently ready, and she was tempted to take him in her grip. 

When he caught her watching, the smallest quirk of a smile tilted his lips.

It was almost more than she could bear. 

“Please…” she mewled, and it seemed that for the briefest moment, he looked to be on the verge of defeat. His eyes closed as he breathed, slowly, as if to recover his footing, and in a moment, his body stalked above hers, fingers digging into her hair and his kiss tasting deeply of her lips. 

Without breaking contact, he pushed slowly into her, their moans mingling. It was heavenly, and when he moved within her, there was nothing in the universe except for him and his body within the embrace of her thighs. 

All other discussions, all other concerns, seemed so trivial in comparison to this. 

  
  



	19. Trust No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you got to this chapter first, you should probably go read Chapter 18. You might have missed that one. :)

She thought she ought to be scolding herself for thinking that the anxieties of the last few days could be remedied by the skillful seductions of Jughead Jones, but her heart wasn’t in it. 

Perhaps he  _ had _ truly sensed her general unease last night and made it a point to pleasure her the way he did, as a means to take very good care of her, or maybe it was just that their work--the reconnaissance, the sigil practices, their preparation, having kept them from their intimacy, had merely caused him to miss it. How long had it been since? A few days? 

Good God, but since when was a few days’ abstinence too long? Either way, she ought to be grateful for his love and desire. Far be it she would complain.

However, there were matters of grave import that needed discussing, and it was while waiting for Jughead to return to his desk that she summoned the motivation to bring those things up with him. 

When Jughead finally walked through their office door, his hands were laden with a plate of pastries and a cup of what appeared to be coffee. “Ms. Blossom, or rather her assistant, brought some in for Harrington’s birthday. I thought you might like these.”

He laid the pastries and coffee on her desk and she grinned in appreciation. “What a sweet dear, you are. And I don’t even know Harrington.”

He chuckled, pulling a palm sized box within his coat. “Friendly chap whose desk is filled with photographs of his six children.”

She might have vaguely remembered him, though at the moment, biting into a blueberry tart, she couldn’t be too fussed about it. “What do you have in the box?”

He nodded, opening the box to reveal several rows of a glossy translucent material, thin as paper. “Something to add to our Murder Board. The Blossom family generally had a seat at every exclusive table in New Kin City for many generations. Many of Ms. Blossom’s-- _ your  _ ancestors, like Barnabas Blossom, held office as Prime Guildsman. There may have been an Ealdorman somewhere along the line, as well. These aren’t secrets, by the way. It is common enough knowledge that I gathered from Ms. Muggs. She was also kind enough to go into the library--the one which you managed to get us banned from entering for the foreseeable future--to procure these microphotographs; here are old issues of the New Kin Times containing articles about the Blossoms and their contributions to this city.”

Betty didn’t know what microphotographs were, and perhaps that was the most important point, but she couldn’t resist the laugh that bubbled up her lips. “Oh, I’m sure Ms. Ethel Muggs was so very accommodating.”

“Oh, don’t you dare look at me like that. You showed me this portal and you have no right to judge me for walking through it when it suits us.”

Betty threw up her hands to concede the point. “What is a microphotograph?”

“Very, very small photographs. An extraordinary invention patented in the last decade. These are strips of celluloid film. Held against a back-light and magnified with special lenses, you might find an entire document--for example a periodical, ‘micro photographed’ and preserved within its frame. It hasn’t quite caught on with the Locked, but they have been extensively utilized by the Kin. If you have the funds, that is.”

Betty knew that the Guild was never lacking in that regard, fully funded as they were by the Imperium. 

Jughead took a strip of celluloid and tacked it to the Murder Board under Blossom. “It might also interest you to know that Mr. Clifford Blossom, Ms. Blossom’s father took his own life a few years ago, before Charles was Forsaken.”

“Cheryl did say.” She refrained from mentioning that Cheryl did not care much for him. 

“His twin brother, Claudius, however, is still alive.”

Betty wondered if she may intrude upon Claudius Blossom should Cheryl refuse to let her speak to the Blossom matriarch, Penelope Blossom. 

A ding cut through their conversation and they both turned to the pneumatic tube window installed in the corner of their office. The arrow atop it shifted from red to green and Betty stood to take the canister that was now contained in it. 

“Expecting something?” Betty asked as she unscrewed the cap and fished out the rolled up message.

He frowned. “Not at all.”

Betty replaced the cap and sent the empty canister right back through the tubes. 

Unfurling the message, she saw that it was from Guildswoman Burble and it was addressed to her. 

_ Wait outside at the front steps. Bring Jones. _

*************

The nondescript autocarriage stopped at the curb in front of them as they waited at the steps and for a moment, Betty feared they were about to get abducted. Jughead might have been thinking the same, having stepped between her and the vehicle’s door. 

But as the glass window swung open, they caught a glimpse of Guildswoman Burble from within, and her succinct instructions of, “Get it,” caught them even more by surprise. 

Betty exchanged looks with Jughead, and when she nodded, he opened the carriage door for her to step inside. He followed right after, and as they settled in their seats, Betty never took their eyes off the Guildwoman, who was seated across from them in her stylish suit and imposing hat. 

The autocarriage drove off and Betty thought they were a captive audience of sorts. 

“Ms. Cooper, Mr. Jones, I thank you for coming,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you’d heed my note.”

“All due respect, Guildswoman, it would be folly to gain-say a request from the head of the Human Resources department from a purely practical standpoint,” Betty replied. 

Given everything that had occurred, Betty and Jughead did discuss the possibility that they were walking into danger, especially considering the fact that Head of Security McGinty did seem to have been watching them. The Guildswoman had eyes everywhere, but it was also worth considering that Guildswoman Burble was the only other person in this city who seemed as interested in uncovering true events as they were. 

Whatever her intentions, their goals appear to be the same for now: find out the truth about Charles Cooper.

“I’ll get right to the point,” the Guildswoman said. “How were you two able to enter the Room of Realms without passing through the front doors of Guildsman Hall?” 

Betty froze and by the looks of Jughead, he wasn’t going to say much, either. 

She did make an attempt to deny Guildswoman Burble’s words by laughing lightly and saying, “Well, that’s just ridic--”

Which was forestalled by the Guildswoman’s withering glare. She unfolded a screen mounted on the interior autocarriage’s wall and pressed a button on the accompanying keypad. 

Hazy but unmistakable images pushing and forming against a sea of spectral pinpricks moved against the screen. Details were washed over, but the impressions were clear; the backdrop was the Room of Realms and two figures were inserted in its midst. It was like the very soul of everything had been recorded for them to rewatch. 

Guildswoman Burble pointed to the smaller figure of the two. “That ponytail is unmistakable, Ms. Cooper. I have personally come to like it for its signature quality. That taller chap could have been anyone, but I do know you and Mr. Jones to be thick as thieves, asking all sorts of questions--that’s right, I’ve been paying attention, so it does not take an Aether scientist to determine who that figure is.”

Betty was at a loss for words. “W-What is this thing?”

“It’s an Aether Imager,” Jughead breathed. “It scans for anomalies in aether fields and captures them when they occur…”

“They are all over Guildsman Hall,” Guildswoman Burble explained. “A fairly new technology, installed to please higher leadership after the break in at the Room of Realms. Select members of the security team are the only ones granted access to this system, and lucky for you, it was Mr. McGinty who found this footage first. Everything the security team finds goes through me, but Mr. McGinty is particularly loyal to me. He sent me this capture this morning because he was concerned for your safety.”

“Our safety?”

“If  _ I  _ know you were in the Room of Realms, then there’s every possibility someone else will, Ms. Cooper. This adventure you have embarked on with Mr. Jones--you  _ do  _ realize that when secrets are being kept, there are people who don’t want them to come to light.”

Betty clamped her lips shut, but Jughead pressed his hand to her arm and said, “What is it that you want, Guildswoman? Now that you have caught us on the Aether Imager what do you plan to do with this capture?”

“Destroy it,” the Guildswoman replied without hesitating. “It has already served its purpose. I know you know something, and I believe we are looking for the same answers. You want to know what got Charles Cooper killed.”

“How did you--”

“Haven’t we established that nothing goes on in this place that I can’t sniff out,” Guildswoman Burble said with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t know what Mr. Cooper knows. I have a feeling you know more in that respect than I do at this moment, but I do know why he was killed after all these years.”

Betty’s heart beat madly in her chest. “Tell us why. Tell us--”

Guildswoman Burble sighed deeply, holding out her hands. “Because I started asking questions, Ms. Cooper. I’m afraid that because I was trying to find the truth, someone thought it best to finally dispose of him.” 

The truth hit Betty like a stone to the chest, and while they had long believed that Charles was killed for what he knew, it still hurt to hear someone else say it, and that their actions may have caused it. 

Jughead’s eyes sparked with fury. “What did you do? Were you so careless that you got him killed?”

“I wasn’t!” Guildswoman Burble cried. “Or I didn’t think I was. I took extreme measures to keep my communications with him secret. It had to be that way, for if I were caught with proof, I may be excommunicated myself. I was certain no one would know I was to meet with him. He agreed to tell me everything in exchange for his Daemon--”

“That was a lie!” Betty hissed. “You didn’t have his Daemon then. The break in didn’t happen until months after he was killed!”

Guildswoman Burble shot her a disdainful look. “He  _ knew  _ I didn’t have his Daemon in possession then, but I did agree that I would steal it back for him if he told me what got him ex-communicated.”

“Why would he trust you? Why would you want that information?” Betty demanded.

“Mr. Cooper trusted me because I was his friend,” the Guildswoman replied. “In some respects, I was his professional mentor.”

At this, Betty saw true pain cross Guildswoman Burble’s face. If she was acting, she was quite good at it. 

“I don’t know how anyone found out I was meeting with him,” Guildswoman Burble continued.

Jughead’s jaw was tight with tension. “The way I see it, Guildswoman, the real question here is why you wanted that information in the first place and why Charles would’ve trusted you with it.”

“My reasons then are inconsequential. What matters is why I want answers  _ now.” _

“Inconsequential?” Jughead’s voice was rough with suppressed anger. “Or selfish?”

“Perhaps that,” the Guildswoman admitted. “I collect information at every opportunity in case I can use it for my advantage later on, or for a greater purpose, even, if you’d believe that. Mr. Cooper was willing to trust me with what information he had because I think he thought I may act on it, and perhaps I would have. Perhaps I could. When he was killed, I felt it was my duty to get to the bottom of it. People took pains to silence him, first by ex-communicating him, and then later by killing him.”

“Do you expect us to believe that benevolence is your primary motivation for uncovering the truth now?” he demanded, and Betty grew nervous that he was crossing a very precarious line. 

Guildswoman Burble arched an eyebrow. “No. I suppose not, and you wouldn’t be wrong. I have ambitions, Mr. Jones. That much I am willing to admit, but I promise you that I have never perpetuated an injustice. I play by the rules of this society, yes--I could not have gone so far up this ladder otherwise, but it is my goal to climb it for the right reasons.”

“By strong-arming people with information? In some circles that is called extortion.”

She shrugged a shoulder, clearly unapologetic. “Some people deserve to be held accountable for their own wrong-doings, and if I can make them do the right thing by threatening them with a scandal here or there, I will use that power to its full extent. Insofar as I know, I have not yet let anyone get away with murder or equally abhorrent heinous acts. In fact, I have done my share of putting them away, but I would like to think that even presented with a situation where the stakes are high against my better-interests, I would not hesitate to sacrifice my fortunes for the greater good.”

“Says you,” Jughead said. “Let us know when you gain no benefit from your efforts, however benevolent you think they may be.’ 

Betty thought Jughead was right to be suspicious, but she found the Guildswoman to be oddly convincing. 

To her credit, the Guildswoman did not seem offended by Jughead’s distrust. “I only wish to warn you at this juncture. Be careful. People are watching and I urge you to stay close. Protect one another. When you are ready to trust me, or if you find yourself desperate for help, I am here. Perhaps we can find a way to work together. If you so desire, I can give you Mr. Cooper’s Daemon--”

“You don’t have his Daemon,” Jughead said. “You never did.”

Guildswoman Burble made a motion to protest, but perhaps seeing the conviction in Jughead’s eyes, she clamped her lips shut and nodded. “Don’t let your guards down.”

The autocarriage came to a stop two blocks from Guildsman Hall and when they stepped out on the curb, it drove off with Guildswoman Burble still in it, away from the Guild. 

Betty watched the autocarriage go with growing trepidation. “You don’t trust her.” 

Jughead shook his head. “I don’t, but I fear that at some point, we may have no choice.”

*********************** 

Betty had never had dinner at a restaurant before. 

In Riverdale, the only public places for anyone to have dinner were the disreputable pubs and the more reputable but gentlemen-only dining halls, neither of which Betty could go to as herself, one of which she probably can seat herself unmolested as Chic (and it won’t be the gentleman’s dining hall).

New York City, however, considered it all the rage to accommodate both men and women in their fine dining establishments, and the most exclusive of them all was Delmonico’s, with its glistening chandeliers, white table cloths, gleaming silverware, crystal goblets, and the most beautifully dressed and moneyed patrons the city had to offer, Locked and Kin alike. 

Betty could hardly believe she counted amongst its guests this night, but here she was, her arm linked with Jughead’s, being led up a flight of opulent stairs to the third floor, where only the most distinguished of patrons were seated. There was a rumor, in fact, that the Vanderbilts were on the premises, though it would be nearly impossible to spy them through their closed-door dining area. 

However appropriate her presence there was, it felt strange to Betty to be so openly out and about at this hour amidst the oft rule-riddled society of the Locked, with no one casting disapproving glares in her direction.

Jughead leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I’m glad we’re here.”

This was even more shocking to Betty. 

He laughed, softly. “Oh, please. I can be affable when I choose to be.”

“Clearly.”

He patted her hand lightly. “I know you’ve been wanting to have a night out in the city, but I’ve been woefully lacking in making the effort. That we can be here tonight, impeccably dressed in the best restaurant in town—I am glad we can enjoy this evening.”

And he  _ was  _ impeccably dressed, perhaps even better than he looked at Veronica’s birthday party. His suit was new, pressed and polished, not a crimp out of place. His hair was newly clipped, shorter than it usually was, which only served to showcase the best features of his face, which were his eyes, his cheekbones, and his chin. 

To her he looked devastatingly handsome and she was certain that no matter the fare, she would thoroughly enjoy having dinner with him, but she felt compelled to remind him it wasn’t just the two of them. 

“Even with other people at the table?” she teased.

“As far as dinner companions go, these are tolerable. Mostly.” 

All things considered, Jughead was in a far better disposition than she expected. “Aren’t we in a generous mood?”

“Well,” he replied in an easy tone. “Delmonico’s does boast of the best steak in town. I can’t say I’m not interested in judging so for myself.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” She might have known that the food had enough of a reputation to keep Jughead in good spirits, even for a social function such as this, but in fairness to Jughead, he did seem genuinely disposed to socialize. His smile was certainly easier, and when they arrived at their table, he didn’t throw a single sarcastic comment, even when Veronica commented on what an honor it was that he chose this occasion to go to the barber’s. 

Moose, Reggie, Archie, and Munroe were already seated, but Betty was quite happy to see Valerie Brown among Veronica’s guests. Josie McCoy was also amongst them, and Betty found herself fascinated by this artist. 

Cheryl, Toni, and Jason arrived fashionably late, and while Cheryl greeted Betty hello, she remained aloof most of the evening. 

In spite of that awkwardness, the conversation at the dinner table was lively, the food rich and exquisite, and the mood buoyant. It might have been the champagne, which Jughead did not consume, even as toasts were made.

Betty was having a grand time. 

As the evening wore on and they were served desert, Prime Guildsman Lodge arrived, which understandably sent the Junior Peace Dealers buzzing.

“Please don’t get up on account of me,” Prime Guildsman Lodge said. “Veronica said you would be here and I wanted to meet you all--our promising new crop of the Kin’s Finest, doing the noble work we were put on God’s earth for.”

For the first time that evening, Betty detected Jughead’s sarcastic energy, but to his credit, he said and did nothing--only emitted the barest of sighs.

The Prime Guildsman perched a hand on Veronica’s shoulder. “But it’s a diverse and distinguished group,  _ mija _ . Peace Dealers, artists, business owners, and leaders in their respective fields. I am impressed.”

Veronica laughed. “Oh, father. It’s just  _ us,  _ but thank you. We’ve been having a wonderful time and I am so glad you dropped in. I love a good surprise.”

“I see you are having dessert!” he said. “Which is perfect. I was hoping I could take the gentlemen to the smoking parlor up on the sixth floor after dinner. Just for a little while, perhaps even discuss Guild initiatives with Mr. Jones. I think it’s always good to connect with the seniors who are in the thick of it--on the field.”

Jughead could not disguise his surprise at being directly addressed, and Cheryl’s eyes sparkled with outrage even through her smile. Betty could not blame her. Out of all of them, Cheryl held the highest Guild rank, but because she could not be admitted to the tobacco room, she was excluded by default from any discussions with the Prime Guildsman.

Even Jughead knew this, and he threw Cheryl a hesitant glance as he formulated a response. “Of course. That could prove to be an important discussion Prime Guildsman Lodge, but Ms. B--”

“It’s just Hiram tonight, Forsythe.”

Before Jughead can say anything more, the Prime Guildsman continued, “And don’t think, mija, that I neglected the ladies. Forgive me if I overstep, but I’ve arranged for you ladies to take part in an exclusive wine sampling at the conservatory with some music, ours d’evours, and more dessert. How about that?”

Veronica clapped, throwing her arms around her father and giving him a grateful kiss. “I adore you overstepping this time, father!”

Josie gave a breathy sigh. “That sounds divine all around.”

Cheryl radiated an explosive energy which was no doubt being tempered by Toni, who had linked her arm around her belle’s waist, but Cheryl was not to be silenced. “Yes, I think more wine is in order.” 

“Finish your dessert and I shall see you all later,” Prime Guildsman Lodge said. 

Veronica kissed her father goodbye, and when he left, conversation took on an excited treble. 

Jughead’s fine mood was suddenly considerably deflated. “Well, this took a turn,” he grumbled in her ear. 

“I don’t believe it will take very long. Moose is at least there to keep you company.”

He made a soft sound of frustration. “I will be expected to drink. I may have to get creative in that respect. Perhaps pay one of the servers to switch my liquor with something temperate, like apple juice, or something just as ridiculous.”

She wished he did not have to deal with this alone. “Do you need help? I’m sure I can assist somehow.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve done it before. You may have to leave for home much earlier. Take the carriage and perhaps offer Valerie a ride so that you don’t have to be alone.”

She frowned. “Juggie, we are on Chambers street. I won’t have you hailing a carriage so late this far down in New York! It isn’t safe!”

“Well then, what makes you think I would let  _ you  _ hail a coach with a strange coachman at any hour? I’ll have Moose with me, anyway. I won’t be alone and honestly, one look at Moose and any such toughs would likely turn around and run.”

“Are you talking about me, Jones?” Moose asked from across the table. 

“Yes, what  _ are  _ you talking about with your heads so close together?” Veronica asked with a toothy grin.

“Transportation,” Jughead replied. “Betty will take our carriage home, as we gentlemen will likely stay late with your father. I will hail a coach with Moose, if he would be so kind as to share a carriage with me.”

“If you insist,” Moose said with an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh. 

“Would you care to ride with me, Valerie?” Betty said. “I would love some company.”

“I’d be delighted, Betty,” Valerie replied. 

With the transport arranged and all parties spoken for, they soon broke for their respective after-dinner soirees. 

It was lovely, of course, to be with the ladies, and Betty was growing to appreciate these gatherings with them even more. 

As the night drew late and the ladies began to say their goodbyes, Betty wanted to let Jughead know that she was leaving for home. 

“I’ll be quick and come back to say goodbye to everybody,” Betty told Valerie, who was in a lively discussion with Josie McCoy. 

“Do not hurry on account of me,” Valerie told her, kindly. 

As Betty stepped out of the conservatory, she was stopped by the sound of Cheryl’s voice calling her name. 

It was an unexpected summons, and for a moment, Betty wondered if she was hearing things, but as she turned to look over her shoulder, she saw Cheryl approaching her, her expression gone of the displeasure she seemed to radiate at Hiram Lodge’s gender-exclusive arrangements.

Betty remained slightly wary, however. One never knew with Cheryl Blossom. 

“I thought I might speak to you before you left for home,” she said as they moved away from the conservatory doors. “About our… situation.”

Betty thought that an interesting way of putting it, but she let Cheryl continue unimpeded. 

“I spoke to mumsy and I showed her the documentation,” Cheryl went on in an uncharacteristically soft tone. “And she didn’t deny it. She confirmed that we are related by blood, that she knew your father and spoke to him quite often in the past.”

There wasn’t any doubt with Betty, but Cheryl’s validation was important.

“I asked her what she knew about Charles Cooper and his ex-communication, and mother said that she knew very little. She hadn’t been included in the trials, that what she knew of it was purely overheard. Ex-communication proceedings are notoriously held in total secrecy, but she said that if you wanted answers, you may want to direct your inquiries at Uncle Claudius--my father’s twin brother. If the Blossoms had anything to do with Mr. Cooper’s unfortunate expulsion, he would have had the front row seats for it.”

Betty hadn’t known she was holding her breath until she expelled it, and after she did, she took both of Cheryl’s hands and said. “Thank you. This means a lot, Cheryl. I will let you know how we may approach Uncle Claudius once Jughead and I discuss this. I appreciate your trust.” She gave Cheryl’s fingers a final squeeze before she turned to leave. 

“Betty, wait,” Cheryl said before she could go. “I also wanted to say--I know that I can be horrendously spiteful, even cruel at times. I do not deny it, and you can be sure my Antoinette does not approve of my oftentimes vicious streak, but they were born of past experience. I acknowledge that this does not excuse the way I behave, more so the way I behaved towards you. You did not deserve my distrust, and I am--” she paused, swallowed, and said, “I am sorry.”

Betty felt arrested by her words. 

“I ask that you forgive me and that if you are so inclined, continue to count me among those you call your friends. I will try to be more vigilant about my impulses, and certainly, I would extend that courtesy to Jones.”

If there was any shock to be had this night, it would be this. It never seemed to be in Cheryl’s constitution to admit her flaws and apologize. And yet here she was. 

Cheryl might have construed her shocked silence to mean that Betty was not amenable to this last appeal, for Cheryl’s expression began to harden. “Of course, you don’t have to forgive me. Really, it isn’t--”

Before she could continue, Betty took Cheryl in a firm embrace and said, “Of course. Of course I forgive you, and I never stopped thinking of you as my friend. And now we’re family, and that makes me even happier.”

For a moment, Cheryl stood stiff in her arms, but a heartbeat later, her shoulders softened and Betty felt Cheryl returning the embrace. After a firm squeeze, Betty pulled away. It seemed Cheryl was not accustomed to unconditional familial affection and forgiveness. 

“We shall talk more,” Betty promised to a dazed and uncertain Cheryl. 

She finally left, and she did feel that her heart was lighter, realizing that Cheryl’s friendship meant more to her than even she realized. 

As Betty quietly made her way to the smoking parlor, she noticed how the upper floors were much quieter. 

_ More exclusive _ . 

The supper halls below were still alive with the clink of silverware and crystal, still vibrating with the low buzz of genteel conversation, but here where the seemingly rich and powerful held court, there weren’t quite as many people, and staff were far more discreet. 

Her steps clopped against the marble floor and as she approached the smoking salon, the fragrance of Havanas wafted to her nostrils.

A gentleman met her as she drew near, asking how she may be helped. Betty requested the presence of Forsythe Pendleton Jones, III so that she may speak to him, briefly. 

The name likely conjured social stature and wealth, for the attendant said he would see to her request, immediately, ushering her first to some seating where she could wait comfortably, and then hurrying off to do her bidding. 

It wasn’t long before Jughead emerged to see her and she stood to meet him. The attendant had melted away, and if there was anyone else there, they were invisible. 

“Our wine tasting has concluded,” Betty told him. 

He smiled, taking both her hands in his and holding them to his chest. “You enjoyed the sampling, I hope.”

She shrugged noncommittally. “The cakes were far more appealing to me. Did you enjoy the cuban cigars?” 

He rolled his eyes. “They were superior, but too rich for my tastes. Perhaps they might have made a better impression if I actually ingested the brandy that supposedly paired with it. Shall you be heading home?”

She nodded. “I must, for it would be most unbecoming of a lady to stay any later.”

His gentle tug to pull her closer was punctuated by a soft tutting sound. “Honestly. Hang the rules.”

Her soft chuckle filled the space between them. “I shall wait for you at home. No matter how late, please do wake me. I have some news to share with you regarding the Blossoms.” 

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Cheryl and I have made amends. I will tell you all about it later, but more importantly--” she shifted closer, rising to her toes. “I can’t have this lovely night end with our parting.”

“You can depend on me disturbing your sleep,” he whispered, cupping her face to press a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. 

The tenderness gave her an unusual pang of longing and she realized she hadn’t had to say goodbye to him since their separation on the train platform all those years ago. They’d grown so close that it was like their souls were fused, and perhaps they were, having walked as one being twice in their lives already. 

“I love you. Don’t be long,” she breathed, eyes still close. 

His knuckle brushed her cheek and as she turned to watch him leave, she spied Reggie’s face through the open door, averting his eyes. 

_ Well, that’s that,  _ she couldn’t help but think. 

*************

It was a long way from Chambers street to their respective homes, so Betty was glad to have Valerie join her in the carriage. Betty trusted that their coachman would take the longer route to avoid the more disreputable streets along downtown, which is perhaps why Jughead insisted that she take their coach home, for a hailed coach wouldn’t be so careful. 

As Valerie and Betty secured themselves in the carriage, Betty said she was so glad to learn she was friends with Veronica. 

“Oh, I have been in constant discussions with the Lodges through the New York Restaurateur Alliance and she knows of my ambitions--to establish a restaurant along Guildman street, but it was a pleasant surprise to get an invitation from her for tonight’s event, and I wholly appreciate her introducing me to Ms. McCoy. She gave me her card. It’s very exciting!” 

Betty was so happy for her. 

As she peered out the window, she saw that the coachman had veered down Church to put a comfortable distance between them and Centre street, where much of the Five Points gangs converged. They were just passing Leonard when the carriage gave a lurch, and then a jolt so jarring that Valerie screamed. 

The coachman’s cries outside sent Betty’s instincts rearing and she pushed Valerie to the carriage floor, rolling her almost forcefully beneath the seats. 

Valerie made to protest but Betty clamped her fingers upon Valerie’s lips to command her silence, just as the carriage door blew open with astonishing force. Betty found herself staring at a familiar set of black, empty eyes, ones that belonged to the Wraith Lord who once nearly succeeded in killing her. 

************

The scotch glass slipped unceremoniously from Jughead’s grasp as horror filled the pit of his belly. 

Dark fathomless eyes seared through his brain and talon-like claws reached for him through the carriage doors. 

The vision was wrenched from his mind’s eyes as violently as it came, and only the sound of shattering glass knocked sense back into him. 

“Betty,” he gasped, cutting through the haze of tobacco smoke and heading straight for the doors. 

His companions were naturally shocked, and none of them could possibly make sense of his outburst. 

It was Moose who tried to reach out to him as Jughead pushed forcefully past a parlor attendant. “Jones--”

“I have to go to Betty!”

He didn’t wait for anyone to comprehend what he was saying. All he knew was that he had to reach her. Reach her fast.

*************

Betty was getting dragged out by her hair, and the indignity of it was enough to summon her rage. She took the form of Sabathiel, which managed to loosen the Wraith Lord’s grip and give Betty room to roll away. No sooner had she gotten loose that she had to duck the spectral blast the Wraith Lord sent her way. 

She narrowly avoided it, feeling the sharp bite of debris just above her brow, but she was shocked by its deadly fury as it slammed against the coach’s rear wheel, splintering it to pieces. Betty had to scramble to avoid the coach as it groaned and fell on its side. 

The horses reared in panic, taking off and dragging the damaged carriage with it, but the remains of the coach caught on the base of a lightpost, rendering them unable to escape. 

She felt the warm trickle of blood over her eye and she wiped it off with the back of her hand.

“Where’s your partner, Peace Dealer?” asked the Wraith Lord, her mouth barely moving as she spoke. The illusion of her face and body became second nature to the old ones, but details like mouth movement were unnecessary to them. Betty learned from her book that Wraith Lords liked the frightening effect it had on their victims.

Betty had to admit, it was slightly unnerving, especially because of the way the Wraith Lord had expected both of them to be in the carriage. 

Betty frowned but said nothing. 

The Wraith Lord smirked. “Well, we can’t have that, can we? Let’s motivate him towards a speedier arrival.”

Before Betty could process her words, the Wraith Lord made her attack.

For several moments, Betty could only dodge and avoid these spectral projectiles, but as she transformed smoothly into the form of Sabathiel, she gained ground, and steps from the Wraith Lord, she batted the Wraith Lord with her wings. 

The Wraith Lord was thrown sideways, spilling awkwardly onto the ground, but she transformed into a sabre toothed tiger, leaping for Sabathiel’s neck. 

Betty transformed back to herself and the Wraith Lord overshot her, landing behind Betty and spinning almost immediately for another attack. 

This time, Betty used Sabathiel as a shield as she crouched to the ground, thinking frantically of a means to survive this encounter. This much spectre and Peace Dealers would soon be upon them in droves. She only needed to maintain her survival for the next ten minutes.

_ Or fifteen. _

It felt like an eternity. 

She was ready to fight. Since her encounter with this Wraith Lord on the ship, she’d spent some time learning more about them. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough to exploit its weaknesses.

_ Take away the Daemon. _

Sabathiel’s voice rang in Betty’s mind, and quickly, using the blood from her forehead, she drew first the binding sigil she had used on Christine at the pencil factory. She would need the Wraith Lord’s essence to invoke it, and that was her next step--she drew another sigil with her blood, this time on her palm. 

_ “Tu, ad liberandum,”  _ she whispered in latin as she traced it, remembering it from Charles’s books. 

This plan was going to hurt, for it probably meant Sabathiel would have to sustain damage, but it was necessary, because every time a Daemon is taken away from a Wraith Lord, it is vulnerable at that moment and can be defeated. 

Sabathiel let Betty through her protective wings to make the attack, and as Betty charged, Sabathiel ran right in step behind her. 

The Wraith Lord, still in her Sabretooth form, met her head-on. As Betty slid beneath the Daemon’s attack, the Sabretooth’s fangs sank into Sabathiel’s wings and Betty felt its full effects. The excruciating pain blinded Betty for a brief instant, but not before she was able to reach out, her hand passing through the sabretooth, and invoking the sigil drawn on it. 

_ “Zorensg!”  _

The effect was immediate. The sabretooth released Sabathiel from its maw, reeling from the effects of the sigil. The Daemon began to separate from the Wraith Lord, marked by an odd ripping sound in the air. The Wraith Lord screamed, and Betty took her chance, throwing a kick that sent the Wraith Lord flying and stumbling onto the cobbled stone ground. 

Betty immediately scraped the Wraith Lord’s spectre with her finger and applied it to the binding sigil.  _ “Barinu!” _

The sigil’s power took immediate effect, picking up the Wraith Lord from the ground and suspending her in mid-air with her limbs bound by an invisible force, preventing her from enacting any kind of invocation. 

Betty fought through the pain inflicted by the attack on Sabathiel and maintained the cast. Unlike Christine, who was a spirit, Wraith Lords were still very much undead, and could break out of the binding if a Peace Dealer were careless, but the danger was past now. 

She was just about to go to Valerie to check if she was alright when someone grabbed her from behind and sank something into her neck. It pinched, and Betty reacted quickly, throwing her attacker back with an elbow to the throat. 

Her attacker’s strangled cry broke the quiet that had descended on the area, and as he struggled to recover, Betty pulled what appeared to be the syringe embedded in her neck. 

The plunger had only gone halfway, but Betty knew that was enough. She stumbled to her knees, her vision swirling. Her arms fell at her side, and she could see that the binding on the Wraith Lord had begun to loosen. 

Her attacker was covered, head to toe, so Betty could not tell who it was, but the person’s gait was feminine, so Betty could perhaps assume it was a woman.

“We must go,” rasped the Wraith Lord’s accomplice. Her voice was not familiar in the least. “Jones isn’t even here! And with this much spectre in the air, an entire force of Peace Dealers will descend--”

The Wraith Lord laughed. “I told you I would deliver this information to you and it shall be so. It does not have to be in the way you think.”

No matter how hard Betty fought, the drugs made her lurch over her hands, barely able to keep her vision straight.

The Wraith Lord raised her arm.

Her companion made a protest. “If you kill her--”

“If Jones lets her die, then they will be of little use to you.”

Betty wondered what the plan had been, if they had no intention of killing her, but then something sharp and long buried deeply into her side, and the accomplices' scream of anger rang in her ears. 

_ “What  _ have you done?”

_ I’m afraid I’ve been stabbed,  _ Betty thought in an oddly pointed way. She looked at the wooden stake in her gut, no doubt a sliver of wood from the shattered wheel. The Wraith Lord wasn’t at all within reach of the debris, so she must have done it telepathically. 

The Wraith Lord chuckled. “Giving you power over them.”

Betty dropped to the ground, realizing that she could no longer focus on the Wraith Lord and her cohort. She was dying and there seemed to be more important things to think about during her last few minutes on this earth. 

As she turned over on her back, the cobblestone ground unforgiving, she looked up and stared at the swirling starry sky.

****************

Jughead guessed the carriage would go down Church street. It was the safest route out of downtown, and in his state of urgency, there wasn’t any time to doubt his instincts. 

The images of disorder and conflict in his mind’s eye were intense, and as he ran, full speed down Church, Elemiah was urging him to keep going. 

_ Sabathiel urges you to hurry. She will die without you. _

As he rushed past Worth St., he could see the wreck that was the carriage. The coachman lay motionless on the ground nearby, and there was debris everywhere. 

“Betty!” he cried out, his voice ringing down the street. He cried out again, and this time, someone answered. 

“Here! We’re here! Please help!”

It wasn’t Betty’s voice, and Jughead remembered that Valerie was with her. 

He could see Valerie now. She was on her feet, waving to him, and as he got closer, he could see that she was favoring her arm.

Valerie disappeared once again behind the wreckage, and when Jughead rounded the corner, he could scarcely remember to breathe at the sight of Betty on the ground, a wooden stake impaled on her side.

He fell to his knees beside her, taking Betty’s body into his arms. “B-Betty, oh God, Betty!”

Her chest rose and fell, and she blinked slowly up at his face, but blood dribbled off the corner of her mouth, like her life was trickling in small rivulets. 

Stifling a sob, he pressed his hand around her wound, disbelieving that this nightmare was true. 

“I will find us some help,” Valerie said, cringing as her arm pinched as she stood.  _ “Don’t  _ remove that stake.”

Jughead didn’t even see her rush off, his entire focus falling on Betty.

He summoned Elemiah, directing him to heal Betty’s wounds.

_ Her wounds are too grave for me to heal,  _ Elemiah said.

_ Too grave even for us to heal her together,  _ Sabathiel added.

It struck him, then, how the Thinning began to blanket the scene, and Jughead stifled a sob of despair. 

Betty was fading and all he could think was that losing her would devastate him like nothing ever had. He might as well be dead, too, overdosed in some ditch or murdered for whatever self-destructive misdeed he was likely to commit.

His fingers were coated in her blood and as she looked at her face, he was struck by the crook of her lips, stretching into a smile at her death’s wake.

“You’re home,” she breathed. 

Her words ripped at his heart but it also reminded him that they were bound--Daemon Bound, and this was not--could not be the end. 

“I’m not going to let you die.”

Laying her gently on the cobbled ground, he knelt over her and tried to rip her dress open. She cried out in pain. 

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m sorry, my love, but I have to.” He then ripped the front of her dress less gently, and this time, the fabric came away. He began to undo her corset. Blood was oozing out of her wound, but the stake, so ghastly, was preventing more blood from escaping. He didn’t have a lot of time. He tore her chemise open to expose her stomach.

Jughead slashed his palm open with his athame, and using his own blood he began to draw a sigil upon Betty’s skin. 

_ Shareth ‘Teen. _

To share pain. 

He remembered the passage from the book, the same passage Betty had read out loud to him to convince him to steal it:

_ ‘P'rchance thine aethyr taketh on such an ov'rwhelming wund yond wouldst causeth thine aethyr to p'rish, thou shareth of its sev'rity may holp thy aethyr to liveth. Alloweth those did bind in fate and blood shareth in both gl'ry and teen’ _ _ _

Neither of them had practiced this sigil before, but if it could do what it claimed it could do, it would help. It could lighten the damage on her if he took on half of it, and perhaps she could stay alive long enough until healers could arrive. 

When the sigil was drawn, he pressed his hand to it.  _ “G tibibp, noan ol tibibp.” _

_ Let thy wounds unto thee, by thy wounds unto me. _

The sigil glowed bright white and the heat Jughead felt in his palm traveled through his body. Betty’s back arched, pushing against the press of his hand. A sharp pain lanced through his side, but her wound didn’t seem to improve. 

He said the invocation a second time, louder and more forcefully, and a flash of light exploded between them. 

This time, the sigil turned a deep red. Betty’s body bowed almost alarmingly, lifting and levitating off the ground, and the only thing that kept Jughead from coming apart in panic was the more intense need to make the sigil work. 

The sigil seared his hand, like holding his hand to the fire, but he held on, screaming through the agony. Slowly, the stake began to leave her body, seemingly pushed out of the wound by an invisible force, and as this happened, he felt a stab of pain through his side. It hurt so intensely that it knocked him to the ground, gasping as the stake fell away from Betty. Their link was severed, and he was worried that he had failed.

The glow of the sigil was gone and Betty dropped limp onto the ground, but most shocking of all was that blood began to blossom from his shirt, seeping through the fabric of his blouse and coat. He fell beside her in an agonized heap, groaning at this new pain on his body. 

He felt strangely calm, and it was such a familiar feeling that he suspected that he hadn’t just taken on half of her wounds. She might have been drugged and that he had taken that upon him as well. 

“Juggie,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

“It’s going to be alright,” he replied, just as quietly. He didn’t know if it was true, but it had to be, and if he was wrong--well, they would both die, likely, and considering the alternative of living without her, it wasn’t likely he would live much beyond that, anyway. 

He didn’t know when he finally passed out, but when he did, it was while they gazed into each other’s eyes, united in their shared pain. 

***************

The sharp smell of sterilized sheets made Jughead aware of his surroundings. His head was pounding, exactly the same way it did when he was getting over a drug hangover, but there was hardly any time to dwell on this fact. 

Betty. He needed to see Betty. 

He forced his eyes to open as he simultaneously tried to move, but his side bit, and he crumpled in pain. 

He heard movement from the other side of the room and FP came into view, standing over his bed. “Easy there, now. You don’t want to pull your stitches.”

Jughead’s mouth felt dry, and the daylight streaming from the windows of the room were hurting his eyes, but he tried to speak. “Betty--”

“Alive,” FP said, gently. “She lost a lot of blood--much more than you did. Her injury was graver than yours, but she will make it. With rest and recovery, she will be back to her former, vibrant self. The healers said the stake  _ just  _ missed her vital organs. They called it a miracle. Perhaps she was able to summon her Daemon to repair the worst of the damage.”

Jughead closed his eyes, sinking against his sheets in overwhelming relief. The horrible possibilities that had clawed at his sanity began to echo in his mind and he couldn’t process its full meaning right now, only that he was convinced that his will to live would cease should she have perished. 

All he needed to tell himself right now was that she continued to exist, and that he could exist with her. 

“How long have we been here?” he asked.

“A day. Going to two.”

Jughead could not believe he had been unconscious for almost 48 hours. “What drugs did they find in her blood?”

“How did you--?”

“Just tell me, father.”

FP sighed. “Paraldehyde.”

Jughead groaned. “Fantastic. What did they do, filch it off the nearby insane asylum?”

He couldn’t believe he was being this sarcastic right now, but it was, he recognized, a coping mechanism of sorts. 

“Jughead.”

“I almost lost her, father,” he said, feeling himself defenseless. Lying on this hospital bed, unable to move without pain--gathering information and knowing the facts felt like the only thing that could ground him. “I need to think of something tangible and useful right now because I can’t ask for opiates, can I?”

Out of everyone, his father may understand this. “There was a syringe in the scene--likely how the drug was administered. There was half left in it, so its delivery was interrupted. How the drugs were found in  _ your  _ system, son, is the mystery.”

Jughead groaned. “Don’t ask me that, but I promise you, I didn’t decide to shoot it up my arm while Betty was dying. They didn’t give me opiates while I was out, did they?”

FP shook his head. “They didn’t. I told them not to. That you wouldn’t want it in your body.”

He was glad for his father that moment, but the stitch on his side hurt so much that he wondered if a little medicinal help might not be warranted. 

_ No. _

“How did you even get hurt, son? Moose said you tore out of Delmonico’s in perfect health, however agitated you were. Did you encounter the perpetrators at all at some point?”

He sighed, breathing through his pain. “Don’t ask me that, either. Is Betty awake? Has anyone asked her what happened?”

FP gave a sigh of his own, shaking his head at his deflection, but he answered the last question anyway. “She wasn’t the last time I checked, but that was hours ago. She could very well be awake now,” FP replied. “Ms. Brown was interviewed. She said Betty hid her under the carriage seats. She was unable to get out of the carriage after it turned over because she hurt her arm, but she saw enough--it was a Wraith Lord that attacked them, and there was a second perpetrator, one that she cannot identify, but it was a woman, she said, and she claims the voice she heard was familiar, but more importantly, it sounded like the attack did not go exactly as planned, but it  _ was  _ planned.”

Jughead pondered this upsetting piece of information, immediately remembering Guildswoman Burble’s warning. He was inclined to include her on the suspect list, still. She may have warned them, but that certainly did not mean she wasn’t the threat.

“Ms. Brown claimed that the unidentified woman was not amenable to murder--that it all appeared to be the doing of the Wraith Lord. The original objective, it seemed, was to capture Betty, and perhaps you along with them, for it should have been both of you in that carriage. I don’t know why the Wraith Lord decided to—well, let’s be grateful the Wraith Lord did not succeed.”

The tension in Jughead’s body pulled at his wounds and he rode the wave of pain for a moment before he let his reasoning permeate. What would taking them both alive serve? What could be gained by their survival? Unless whomever wished to take them knew they were Daemon Bound, and that their powers could be used for other people’s advantage. 

Another wave of panic suddenly hit him. “I need to speak to her. I need to see Betty.” He pushed his body up to sit, but the abrupt movement caused his stomach to turn and he was beset by a violent need to vomit. Thankfully, FP produced a bedpan that caught the situation before it made a mess on the sheets. 

The retching was not easy on Jughead’s wounds, and every lurch felt like a fresh stab on his side. By the time he was finished, he was in crippling pain, his hands were cold, his entire body was damp with sweat, and he only had as much energy to catch his breath. 

FP squeezed his shoulder. “It is the drugs withdrawing from your body. Your tolerance for anything of the sort has diminished. If you think about it, that’s a good thing. It means your body prefers to be free of any kind of addiction.”

Jughead glared at his father. His optimism was immensely grating right now. 

Another bout of nausea rolled over him and FP held out the bed pan again, but Jughead pushed it away and took a deep breath. “I cannot. I need to be up and about. Where is the water closet? I know this place has plumbing, last time I checked, not that I miss it.”

FP tutted. “Let’s not talk of the last time you were here. The only saving grace is that Kin hospitals are better equipped to care for you. A locked hospital would have gotten both of you killed, if not by blood loss, then by infection. Your mother would have had my head, and if that doesn’t do me in, Alice Cooper would have forced cyanide down my throat.”

Jughead would have chuckled if it didn’t hurt so much. “Do I have a clean set of clothing?”

FP gestured to a set of folded clothes arranged neatly upon the rolling tray. 

“Excellent.” Jughead swung his legs off the side of the bed. His stitches burned, but he fought through the pain, and his father knew better than to talk him out of it. 

FP instead began to assist him, even as he asked, “Is this necessary?”

“I need to see Betty,” was all he said, shuffling across the room. “Who is with Betty now?”

“Her mother. She arrived just this morning.”

Jughead cringed, and it had very little to do with the fact that his bloodshot eyes and pallid face was frankly a fright. “And what does she have to say about all this?” He began to wash his face. 

“I dared not venture to find out.”

That was, to Jughead, fair enough. The cool water on his face was a relief and it helped to alleviate the nausea. He was glad there was toothpaste and that it was the kind that tasted like mint. He might very well vomit again if they had chosen a rose or vanilla flavored one. He eyed the toothbrush suspiciously. 

“Don’t use that toothbrush,” FP said, as if to read his mind, holding out a toothbrush Jughead knew to be his own. 

Jughead gratefully took it, squeezing toothpaste onto its bristles. “What has the Guild said about all this?” He began to brush as he listened to his father.

“They are trying to keep this very quiet. It was an unprovoked Wraith Lord attack, for sure, and this has happened before, so people are not as interested in finding out too many details, but Ms. Blossom has certainly been adamant about spearheading a bigger investigation. She has been asking about you and Betty constantly. I am beginning to think she cares.”

Jughead suspected that Cheryl very might well do so and he can’t believe he was thinking that. 

Quiet or not, enough people would know this happened, and he had to hurry if he wanted to beat the surge of visiting Peace Dealers. He didn’t think anybody would care much for  _ his  _ hospitalization, which was how he preferred it, but he was almost certain that word of Betty’s hospitalization would cause a minor uproar. At the very least, Reggie would be here, possibly with his gang.

Washing out the paste from his mouth, Jughead ran more cold water on his face and through his hair. He looked into the mirror again, watching the rivulets or water run down his skin and from the ends of his silken, but shorn strands. The face on the glass was young, unmarred by wrinkles, and yet he felt aged in his state of pain. 

Wiping his face and hair with a dry towel, he left the water closet and shuffled gingerly to his hospital bed where his clothes were laid out. Bent over as he favored his left side, he really did feel like an old man. 

“Do you wish me to fetch you a walking cane?” FP asked, straight-faced. 

Jughead shot him a deadly glare as he sat on the bed’s edge. 

Clearly stifling a laugh, FP kindly helped him into his clothes. With FP’s assistance, Jughead was able to get into trousers, a blouse, and a vest. Anything more felt like hefting rocks on his shoulders. He folded up the sleeves of his shirt and appreciated his father who was helping him into his boots. 

“Thank you,” he told his father awkwardly. His dignity, he had thought nothing of when he was on the opiates. In his sobriety, it felt it immensely important. And it wasn’t just this, it was everything else that FP had done to protect him--not as the child, but as the grown son. 

FP looked up from the floor as he laced Jughead’s boots. “It’s nothing. God knows, I should have been doing this for you when you were a little boy. This is the least I can do to make up for all those years.”

“I don’t just mean helping me dress, father,” Jughead explained, quietly. “I mean everything--helping me get through the addiction, compromising your integrity to keep my addiction a secret, bearing with me as a wastrel son when I hardly showed you the same patience when you were embroiled in your own beasts…”

FP’s hand was warm and firm on his shoulder. “Ah, son. I may have been late to acting the father, but I did all those things precisely because I realized that it was my duty, and you did not deserve your future being robbed by your mistake. You are one of the best Peace Dealers the Guild has ever seen, and I believe in you, because you are a far stronger and better person than I. You won’t fall on your old habits and you will go on to do this Guild proud.”

There was so much to unpack from FP’s words and at the moment, Jughead was not equal to it. 

“Now come on,” FP said, grinning. “It’s a walk to Betty’s room. Do you wish me to fetch you a wheelchair?”

Jughead would rather eat paraplasm than be wheeled around. He did, however, let FP fetch him a crutch, which helped immensely in getting him down the hallway and around the corner to Betty’s room. 

************

It felt like his whole body ached by the time he reached Betty’s door and he couldn't help but wonder if he had pulled any stitches, but he appeared intact, if not of normal pallor. 

As he peered into the room, he saw Alice. She was seated on the chair on the other side of Betty’s bed. She hadn’t changed out of her travel clothes and her hair was down without a hat, but as Alice turned in her seat at the sound of his entry, he noted that her face was bereft of any exhaustion. In its place was a steely resolve, not quite furious, but rather determined. 

Jughead also noted that Betty was awake, though barely. She looked pale and lacking the vibrancy that defined her, but he had no doubt that she would regain that vitality. She was alive. That was all that mattered. 

“Mr. Jones. Mr. Jughead Jones,” Alice said, greeting them with utmost formality, as if she hadn’t dragged Jughead to tea with her bridge ladies and she didn’t have a child with his father. 

“Mrs. Cooper,” Jughead replied as FP did the same. They sounded like an awkward chorus. They exchanged uneasy looks even as Alice remained stiff shouldered. 

“How silly of you to come all the way here in your condition,” she remarked. 

Jughead recognized that while she wasn’t angry, she was in no particular mood to be accommodating, but he was here for Betty, and Mrs. Cooper would just have to indulge him. He ambled right into the room without being invited. “I had nothing better to do.” 

“Jug,” Betty said through her slow smile. She lifted her hand and Jughead immediately took it. 

His father kindly brought a chair for him and as he sat, he kissed the back of Betty’s hand. He ignored the huff that Alice emitted and took a moment to appreciate being with Betty again. 

“I suppose you haven’t informed the healer that he’s up and about,” Alice said to FP. “Else I doubt he would have been allowed out of his room.”

“I don’t think a healer could have stopped him.”

Betty shot Jughead a secret eye roll and he stifled a laugh. He looked over his shoulder at FP. “Father, you should invite Mrs. Cooper for a quick trip to the commissary. You mentioned you were hungry and I’m half certain Mrs. Cooper has not had anything to eat.”

He certainly had no notion of whether or not this hospital had a commissary at all, but he would let his father grapple with that. 

Alice frowned. “I’m not--”

“What a splendid idea, Jughead,” FP interjected gently. “Mrs. Cooper, please. I am certain that they would at least have sandwiches there and they could not possibly ruin that.”

Alice’s loud sigh was long and suffering, but she relented and left with FP.

“Thank God,” Betty whispered when their parents were gone. “Your father’s a dear.”

Jughead nodded, especially knowing that if Gladys saw FP and Alice together, it may prove to be worse than uncomfortable. 

He took in the details of Betty’s face. Her golden hair was draped over her shoulder in a loose braid and her hospital gown was a drab beige, but even so plain, Jughead thought her lovely.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, quietly. Neither of them were at their best at the moment, but he hoped that while he could not benefit from pain medication, she had been allowed a beneficial dose of it. 

“Tired,” she replied. “Oddly bereft of pain.”

“Good.” At least she wasn’t suffering. 

“Bored,” she added. “I cannot stay here.”

“Betty.”

“I cannot.”

He sighed, rubbing his knuckles gently against her cheek. He could have laughed at her restless spirit, her need to  _ do  _ things rather than stay still, but in this he could not indulge her. He had held her, dying, believing for a brief moment that this was the end. To have her here, alive--she needed to get strong again, allow her body to heal. He had no doubts that her body had never failed her before. Even having gotten injured in the past, she had soldiered on through the pain, walked off cracked ribs, stitches, and a bruised back. This time, it required more than Moose’s quick remedies. 

Her injury had been no small thing, and as FP mentioned, her injuries had been far worse than his. He didn’t know if he botched the sigil, somehow, but even if his execution had been flawed, he had succeeded just enough to keep her alive. 

“You will recover for as long as it takes,” he said, firmly. “Once you begin to feel better, your Kin constitution will heal much faster.”

She made a face and coupled it with a sound of disdain.

He squeezed her fingers. “Betty, you were almost killed.”

Her lips pursed momentarily, but she followed it with a nod. “If you hadn’t arrived on time--” she paused. “If we hadn’t been Daemon Bound, I would be dead. You saved my life.” A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “You are my hero.”

He couldn’t bring himself to take credit of any kind. “If you had died last night, I would be truly and verily lost in this life. I don’t think I would recover. It was as much about my life as it was about yours, so that does not make me a hero.”

Her thumb rubbed against his knuckles. “Don’t say such things. You must believe you would carry on.”

He didn’t think he could be so strong, but this was no time to be so morose. She was alive and that was more than enough. He wished only to sit there and let that reality comfort him. He wanted to appreciate how this bond--this gift they had, allowed him to share her pain so that she may live. He wished, truly, that he could slip under the covers beside her and curl them both into a perfect ball, fitting into one another like they always did. Only then, perhaps, could he begin to comprehend that he had succeeded in snatching her back from the gates of the Otherrealm. 

But because, perhaps, Betty was never known to be a dawdler, even confined to a hospital bed, her mind would not be convinced to stay in quiet repose. “They expected you to be in the carriage with me,” she said, quietly. “My attackers.”

He briefly contemplated the wisdom of telling her to put those thoughts aside for a few more hours, but this time by themselves were borrowed enough as it was. Soon, others would descend upon them and they would not have time to discuss these matters in privacy. “Valerie surmised as much.”

Betty nodded. “I think the Wraith Lord knew--that we’re Daemon Bound.”

His eyebrow arched at this conclusion. “And how would the Wraith Lord know that?”

“Perhaps she always knew.” She blinked, slowly, and Jughead could see that her face was drawn with exhaustion, or soporifics. 

Jughead gave her arm a soothing squeeze, relenting to his initial instinct. “Maybe we should discuss this later.” 

She shook her head. “No, listen. It was the same Wraith Lord on the plague ship.”

That knowledge struck him. “The First.”

“If she’s old enough, she might know more than many have forgotten.”

Jughead could not argue otherwise. The oldest wraith lords were dangerous precisely because they had amassed more wealth in knowledge than most people, but what bothered him the most in this situation was the accomplice. “Valerie said the wraith lord’s companion was a woman.”

Betty nodded. “But I could not see her face. It was concealed.”

“Did you recognize the voice? Did it, perhaps, sound like Guildswoman Burble?”

A soft laugh escaped her, which caused her to wince momentarily. “No. Even if she had disguised her voice, that could not have been the Guildswoman. Her fighting skills were… lacking. The Guildswoman would have been capable of subduing me without the need for narcotics.”

That was a valid assumption. The fact that the narcotics weren’t completely delivered could attest to the accomplice’s inability to overpower a trained target.

“What was their objective?”

“To uncover our secrets,” she said, sighing. “To the accomplice. At least that is what I think.”

Tension beset his body so intensely that his stitches stung. He remembered his earlier conclusions about being discovered.

Her eyes blinked slowly to a close and Jughead thought she had drifted off, but her eyes opened again. “You said the Imperium both value and fear what powers the Daemon Bound have.” 

The dreadful possibilities began to play in his mind. “If the wrong people knew this about us, they can exploit us.”

She nodded.

“And you say it was the Wraith Lord--showing this to its accomplice. Why?”

“Surely there has been an exchange of values.”

“Money?”

Betty shrugged but did not contradict him. 

That was possible. Wraith Lords needed money to hide between the cracks. To conceal themselves. An agreement to trade information for coin was a likely scenario at any given situation, but Wraith Lords rarely make a habit of extracting money from the Kin. If they wanted money, they had often done so with the Locked--less risk of getting caught. 

So what would, in fact, drive a Wraith Lord to deal with the Kin?

“Daemon Wraiths,” he whispered. “The Wraith Lord would have done it for Daemon Wraiths.”

***********

It wasn’t long before Betty’s medication overcame her and even without her conversation, Jughead took comfort in her presence, allowing himself the time to ponder all that had happened. 

To his dismay, he began fervently wishing for a hit. 

He growled in frustration, hoping to find his father so that he might avail of a cigarette, or three. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and as he tucked Betty’s blanket around her neck, he heard a sound at the door. 

He thought it might be Alice and FP returned, but it was Reggie Mantle, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. If he were feeling better, Jughead might observe the types of flowers Reggie brought this time, but he was in pain, fighting off an opium craving, and was overall exhausted by all efforts, mental, emotional, and physical. 

“Mantle,” was all he said, turning to head for the door. “She’s sleeping right now, but feel free to leave the flowers on the table. I am sure she will appreciate them when she wakes.”

To Reggie’s credit, he blushed to the roots of his hair. “These were just available at the commissary. I didn’t--it is the polite thing to do.”

Jughead said nothing, shrugging noncommittally. He wasn’t sure he knew what to say. 

Reggie ambled in awkwardly, placing the flowers on the table, as Jughead had suggested, and glanced briefly at Betty. “Is she--has she awakened since--?”

Jughead nodded. “She was awake and lucid just twenty minutes past. They gave her pain medication and those do tend to sedate.”

“And will she be--better soon?”

Jughead stamped his irritation away, telling himself that Reggie’s concern should be appreciated. “She is recovering. I am sure she will be back to her old self by the end of the week.”

Reggie seemed to heave a sigh of relief. “Splendid. I--um, came here to see you, too, you know. I passed by your room first and you weren’t there, so…”

Jughead arched an eyebrow, frankly disbelieving him. 

At his expression, Reggie rolled his eyes and took something from inside his coat. In his hand were a box of cigarettes. 

Of all the things he expected this day, it wasn’t Reggie’s thoughtfulness and on a certain level, Jughead resented him for being that  _ person,  _ the one Jughead couldn’t even be properly annoyed with. 

“Balls,” he muttered under his breath, before accepting the cigarettes. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’m hankering for a smoke right now. Do you care to join me?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You were smoking plenty at the salon with Guildsman Lodge.”

“When the Prime Guildsman offers you a cigar--”

Jughead arched his eyebrow again and Reggie sighed, his face turning redder than ever. 

“I would be glad to join you, Jones.”

Cheryl was right. He  _ was  _ precious. 

Jughead hobbled on his crutches, finding that it was a greater effort to pretend he wasn’t in pain than it was to walk with stitches on his side. He led them both to his room, and when he got there, it felt like his life’s mission to make it to his window to crank it open, and when that was done, he would plop into the chair that was mercifully placed beside it. 

When he managed to complete these tasks without losing consciousness, he keenly felt the sweat on his back and his resolve to pretend that he wasn’t dying inside crumble. One elbow still leaning against his crutch for support sitting up, he used one hand to flip open the lid of the cigarette case, his thumb to slide a sliver out of its packing, and his lips to pinch the cigarette all the way out. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a match, do you Mantle?” 

Reggie patted himself, producing a matchbook and lighting the cigarette hanging from Jughead’s lips. 

That first puff of smoke was a surprisingly intense relief. He passed the box to Reggie, so that Reggie might take one as he blew the smoke out his window. 

“I could have gotten you a wheelchair, you know,” Reggie said, a spark of humor in his eyes. 

Jughead shot him a look but said nothing. The boy had earned himself a free shot. 

“Truly, I am glad to hear that Ms. Cooper has a good prognosis,” Reggie said. “And that you are up and about. The way you tore out of the smoking salon--I have never seen you so pale. How did you know Ms. Cooper was… in trouble?”

Jughead hadn’t quite thought about how he would explain himself to the salon gentlemen. It didn’t seem important, but now that Reggie mentioned it, he was in a bit of a bind. How, indeed, would he have known? 

“It was just an instinct, Mantle,” he replied, rather lamely. “Something I’ve developed through my years of Peace Dealing, and I am especially attuned to… my partner. I’ve already lost one, in case you haven’t heard.” 

Reggie frowned. “I have. Heard. Jones, you don’t need to pretend that Betty is  _ just  _ your partner. I know she means more to you than that.”

“So much for being sensitive to your feelings.”

Reggie rolled his eyes. “I admit that I was in denial for a while but I saw you last night when she bid you goodbye.”

“Did you?”

“Not on purpose, of course. But you don’t kiss your cousin goodnight like that.”

Jughead scoffed. “Did you truly not know before that?”

Reggie’s scowl deepened. “Well, I--maybe I did have an inkling, but Ms. Cooper always seemed so…”

Jughead waiting only so long for Reggie to continue. “Professional?”

“Independent.”

He supposed someone like Reggie would have a more traditional view of romance. Or perhaps just women in general. “So because she seemed preoccupied by things other than her romantic attachments, she is—therefore, unattached?”

Reggie shifted his eyes to the view outside his window. “It seemed like a reasonable assumption at the time.”

Jughead almost felt sorry for him. It wasn’t Reggie’s fault that he hadn’t had the opportunity to know Betty better. “For what it’s worth, Betty liked those flowers you sent her. Tulips and carnations? Very pretty.”

Reggie looked anything but pleased. “Did she read you the note?”

Jughead forgot about that. “In Betty’s defense, she and I tell each other everything.”

Reggie groaned. 

“We live in the same house, Mantle. What did you expect?”

“Nevermind. It’s all beside the point. It was always you. I was just too blind to see it. And if the rumors are true, you saved her life that night at the plague ship. Whether or not you were attached at the time, I couldn’t possibly hope to match that feat.”

Jughead bristled at that. “Well, I didn’t do it to impress her, Mantle.”

“I know that. I’m joking. What I mean to say is that I wish the both of you the best of luck. Betty seems very happy.”

Not that they needed any sort of validation from Reggie, but it was decent of him to express a graceful exit. “Far be it that I’d suggest Betty is replaceable in any way, but there are many opportunities for you to direct your attentions to someone else—someone who would better appreciate what you have to offer.”

“I think I’d best direct my attentions on my career.”

“Or that.”

“I know that the Guild is looking to you to take on more senior roles, Jones. That was clear by the Prime Guildsman’s treatment of you at the smoking salon.”

Of all the things Jughead had to deal with today, he felt that this would be the most exhausting. “Mantle,  _ please—“ _

Reggie raised his hands. “I’m not asking you to mentor me, Jones. I have a Guardian to report to and I’m half certain that Ms. Blossom would not appreciate me bypassing her to speak to you this way, so please don’t tell her. I would like to live to see my thirties, but should you have more opportunities in the future to gather a team, or if you need any sort of assistance in the furtherance of your career goals, know that I am at your disposal. You’ve seen me work. I can be creative and resourceful, and I am always willing to learn, from both you and Ms. Cooper. I promise I shall never bring this up again. Just please consider it should the occasion arise.”

Jughead sighed, but he nodded, knowing full well how it was to start one’s career at the Guild. “I’ll see what I can do, Mantle.” 

Reggie’s nod and genuine smile was almost endearing. He was a precious one, indeed.

  
  



End file.
